With the whole of the mercenary band fleeing into the night, Geralt was left with a dilemma. Should he reveal himself now, or wait a few minutes for when Jaskier's insatiable curiosity led him to prying open every closed container within grabbing distance? Roach made her feelings known immediately, whinnying imperiously for her due.
"Oh, Roach!" said Jaskier, "am I ever glad to see a friendly face. Even if it is a long one. Yes, yes, I have your apple. Even at my worst I wouldn't dare neglect that. Where is your witcher, fine lady? I can't see him being contained by a pear-box, of all prisons."
Geralt's displeased grunt was, apparently, audible from where the single remaining horse was tethered, as Jaskier immediately perked up. "Oh-ho! Is that so? Really, Geralt? A fruit-crate? Not even a magical one, I made sure when I picked it out." Geralt huffed. "Come out already, you great lump, I won't bite-" Jaskier cut himself off suddenly, going rather pale. "Ah, that's not as funny as it would have been a while ago, I'm afraid."
Just as Jaskier staggered slightly, he found himself supported by the steady weight of a witcher on one side, and a horse on the other. He looked a little shocked, as though he hadn't even had time to hear Geralt tear through the slim boards. He probably hadn't. Humans were slow like that, sometimes. Geralt thought that the bard up close was even more concerning than seeing him from a distance. He truly did look awful.
"Geraaaalt," Jaskier said, drawing the witcher's name out pitifully. "I am having almost as bad a day as you were, stuffed in a box." Geralt grunted in what he hoped was a satisfactorily sympathetic manner. Jaskier seemed mollified. "I supposed I just had to run into you now, AFTER I've already done all my best work against that magic prick," said the bard with a sniff, turning to embrace Geralt and promptly drying his eyes on the larger man's shirt. "Still," he said, voice brightening slightly, "I suppose you did see me chase off those assholes who took the job, that was fairly well done."
"Yes," said Geralt, because it had been, he supposed. For someone like Jaskier to scare other humans took a great deal more work than it would take a witcher, and for some reason Jaskier had never been the best of actors, despite lying like the lying liar he was at every possible opportunity. If, of course, he had been acting this time.
Geralt took the opportunity to sniff Jaskier surreptitiously; scent of blood, sweat, and tears, check, scent of magic, check, scent of wolf...fuck. There it was. The scent of a werewolf was faint but unmistakable, and it was all over Jaskier's clothes. The moon would be up in less than two hours, there was no time to reach a safe distance.