Half a day's walk served to bring the vindictively victorious bard back to where he started, but he had made a few alterations to his appearance since leaving the tower of tackiness. One of the little trinkets he had discovered during his night of poking around had been a chest filled with small spheres, each containing roughly a hogshead of liquid somehow fit into something the size of a cherry. They had, of course, been meticulously labeled. 'Had' being the operative word. Although they were, after all, still technically labeled. It was just that those labels now had nothing whatsoever to do with the contents. Three he had made off with entirely, their contents too useful (or amusing) to leave behind.
When given the chance, Jaskier was capable of some quality plotting. Not necessarily realistic plotting, see also his songs, but people were often so entertained they went along with it. With that in mind, the order of the day was to make sure the common peoples of the area were firmly on the side of the White Wolf, whenever Geralt happened to show up. They already thought the local sorcerer was a bit of a snob, and by the time Jaskier was done with his reputation there wouldn't be a person for a dozen leagues that would spit on him if he was burning (or help him harm sentient beings for any price). There was the slightest twinge of what might once have been a conscience, and then Jaskier remembered a mercifully empty drawer labeled 'witcher teeth samples' and resolved to ruin the poorly-dressed mage even harder.
One of the spheres was full of a type of scentless oil Jaskier was, ahem, intimately familiar with, and he had thought it downright hilarious for anyone to have so much of it on hand. Especially a wizard who clearly had so little use for it. The next was less amusing, a small red ball that had been tagged as containing "purified and everfresh blood, of virgin women, still living." The substance was one he recognized from university as occasionally being kept on hand by the oldest houses, in the event of a vampire guest. 'Donations' would be taken from convents, with the ladies well compensated for their chastity and discretion. Officially, no one possessed such a vile enchanted substance. Unofficially, it was apparently much desired by creatures that might otherwise eat the owner, and never went bad thanks to the enchantment.
What Jaskier had planned with this extremely sterile (he did occasionally listen to Shani's lectures on hygiene) blood was much less, er, appetizing than the usual use. Jaskier had decided however, that needs must when the devil drives. He was shortly thereafter covered with blood, which combined with the rents in his outfit to create a truly gruesome picture. Now it was just a matter of acting. Which might pose a small problem.
Jaskier's acting was the stuff of legends, yes, but not necessarily in his usual way. Public speaking, he could do. Performance of music or poetry was a breeze. Lying, even, he was absolutely accomplished at, and that was supposed to be basically the same as acting. It was just that Jaskier was so persistently himself that unless he happened to be cast as an extremely sexy bard who everyone should be looking at all the time, it didn't tend to work out. Any lie or performance had to be a variation on Jaskier the Bard, and slotting himself in to someone else's narrative had literally never once in his entire life worked out for him. Just ask his parents.
Henri, a playwright classmate of his, had once nearly had an aneurysm after a freak accident had left Jaskier, understudy just there for extra credit (and not at all because he was fucking the stagehands, noooo), on-stage at the yearly new-writer's tragedy showcase. The young author had been ready to strangle the troubadour all through the first act, as Jaskier had spent it periodically ad-libbing and reciting the frankly melodramatic dialogue with all the reverence it deserved (which was to say, none at all).
When at the start of the second act Jaskier's character had been suddenly killed off with extreme prejudice, it was quite a shock for everyone, including (especially, even) the actors. Luckily, the dean's wife had immediately burst into tears, and the man himself had declared it a novel and daring disruption of tropes and conventions. A shocking twist, highlighting how the real nature of tragedy was a cruel and uncaring world that could snuff out even the brightest flames in an instant. Henri had won an award, and gotten himself an excellent, generous patron. He had also never once spoken to Jaskier again without calling him some variation on "a hopeless ham-ass hack."
If Jaskier was going to pull this off, clearly he would have to find a way to do it as himself. A shocked and terrified victim of the awful evil wizard was right out; Jaskier had never stayed terrified of anyone in his life and he couldn't start now. He could perhaps try for long-suffering but pure-hearted troubadour trying desperately to warn the townspeople of the danger in their midst. If all else failed, a bit of improvisation might be required.