This was, Jaskier thought, objectively less dangerous than subverting a sorcerer in their own domain. Yet somehow, looking down the barrels of several pointy crossbows, he simply couldn't summon the same composure. He supposed he was out of his element. Not to mention improperly dressed for a performance. Still, one worked with what one had. Whether that was an embarrassingly amateur script or an audience made up of ruffians and thugs.
The scream had been pure reflex, and while he was fairly sure that Geralt was capable of clocking it from a fair distance, he couldn't count on the witcher to save him this time. He already had the bare bones of a story though, and really that was all Jaskier had ever needed to get him off the ground. These rouges would be running for their lives inside half an hour. Hopefully.
Acting, his friends had (repeatedly) assured him, was best when one could almost believe oneself. Perhaps in this case it wouldn't be so different from molding Jaskier the Bard into a slightly different shape to suit every audience. In this case he was Jaskier the Bard, as he would be having gone through a (more) horrible ordeal. Jaskier had picked werewolves not entirely at random; it was a full moon tonight, after all, and it was a fair sight easier than pretending to be a ghost while conspicuously corporeal. They were well-known, but not a beastie the average bandit was likely to think he could take in a fight.
Really, it was ultimately because Jaskier knew them. Write (or in this case perform) what you know, and all that. He had helped Geralt on a few hunts for them now. It was an easy curse to cast, for someone who truly wanted to cause as much pain as possible. Usually it splashed back on them, and they wound up burning in the flames they'd lit, but people like that didn't tend to care. Werewolves who reveled in bloodshed were easy. It was the reluctant ones, victims as much as the people they'd killed, that were difficult to stomach. If Jaskier could channel that into a song that would make grown men weep (and he very much could and had, thank-you-very-much), he could surely convey a bit of it when acting for his life.
On the whole, this particular performance seemed to be going rather well, once Jaskier had gotten into character, as it were. He had stumbled a bit, stepping into the clearing, and wedged his foot rather roughly against a tree-root. He had managed to work his eyes watering from the pain into the bit, though, and rather thought Henri would be proud of the work he was putting in. Either proud or abjectly horrified, it was hard to say. Jaskier wasn't exactly enjoying himself, it was hitting a little too close to home given that he still hadn't found Geralt in all this.
Barry the wizard was once again hurled under the ox-cart of public opinion. Jaskier would admit to enhancing his tale more than a little, but he really thought he had them now, in terms of narrative investment. Hardly an easy feat if placing his dashing bard alongside a foil with all the charisma of a wet noodle. The improved story was catching him up in it as well. He found himself thinking, truly, about all the injustices visited on his witcher, the anger and defensiveness he felt. He noticed their strong reaction to the name, and a quick look around the clearing revealed a few details he had been (at first) too busy watching the pointy weapons to notice.
Roach was unmistakable among the horses, although a bit of greenery stopped him from seeing how much gear she retained. He also noticed the crate he had spent entirely too long clearing of produce in the back, but there was absolutely no way they could possibly be containing Geralt in it. That would be ridiculous. It was made to hold pears, for Melitele's sake, not witchers. Still, these must therefore be the mercenaries that Barry had hired. Probably the only ones he could get, hah. They were clearly from a down-on-their-luck Southern company, ill-suited to jobs up North. Likely cost a pretty penny, too. They'd probably been passed the implements from the mage without the slightest hint of oversight, and had no reason to doubt the workings of a sorcerer.
Jaskier decided to preemptively dissuade them from bothering Geralt, and didn't miss the frantic hand signals one redheaded fellow was giving his compatriots as a result. There was clearly something in the box, so Jaskier dropped in a few extra hints as to how much they really needed a witcher to save them, just in case. Fuck, now he was really tearing up. The thought of Geralt, coming to find him, only to have to...well, it would make a banger of a ballad, but Jaskier thought he'd rather sing it than live it, certainly. Just the idea of it might haunt him for a while. He thought for a moment he might have laid it on too thickly even for these culturally limited cretins, but no, they broke and ran as if on cue. So nice to have a cooperative crowd to work with, thought Jaskier with satisfaction, and, after a moment to collect himself, went over to start snooping.