For the Whumptober prompts 1 "Search party" and 2 "Trust issues"
"Fuck, where is the bard?" Dropping the fire wood he has collected, Geralt looks around the glade, his expression a mixture of annoyance and worry.
"No idea, I thought he was with you, Witcher. He's your bard, after all," Milva says, while checking if the wooden spit Cahir has whittled for her is pointy enough. Then she sticks it through the expertly skinned and gutted piglet she shot earlier. "But don't worry, I'm sure he'll be back when all the work is done and dinner's ready."
"Milva's right. He's probably gone off to scribble nonsense in this inevitable scroll of his and forgot about the time."
"Right, so you won't be able to look over his shoulder and spy on him," Geralt growls, still suspicious of the Nilfgaardian, who keeps claiming he is not one. Despite them having fought side by side in the Battle on the Bridge, he does not trust the erstwhile black knight one bit. Who knows who he is really working for and what his agenda is?
"I've apologised. And I won't apologise a second or a third time," Cahir says dryly and with an almost undetectable southern accent. He snatches some of Geralt's firewood and feeds their campfire with it.
"Isn't three times the charm, though, among you humans?" Regis asks, amused. "Although I have never, I must admit, understood what your strange obsession with particular numbers is. Three, seven, twelve, thirteen. The only relevant number is, as should be common knowledge, forty-two, but sadly, humans seem to be mostly unaware of it."
"Fourty-two?" Milva asks. "Are you making fun of us, vampire? What on the continent could be special about forty-two?"
Milva soon regrets having asked this question as Regis immediately begins to give a highly scientific lecture on the significance of the number forty-two, a lecture that, to her, makes exactly zero sense. However, just before she cannot stomach any more of it, Geralt jumps up from the tree stub he was sitting on.
"Fuck! This is taking too long! What if something has happened to Jaskier? We're in the middle of the bloody wilderness!"
"It's a quite nice forest, not too dense with lots of light, colourful late summer flowers, the leaves are just turning yellow and red, birds are singing, the bees are collecting the last nectar before the winter, all kinds of delicious mushrooms are springing from the fertile soil ..."
"Regis, you don't understand. It doesn't matter what the forest looks like. Jaskier has this particular talent to get himself in trouble. Any animal that looks cute, he wants to pet and cuddle. And everything that appears to be somewhat edible, he puts in his mouth, that fool."
"Oh dear, this is not a wise thing to do indeed," Regis says with a frown. He has seen plenty of highly toxic berries and mushrooms growing not far from their camp. Jaskier would not try the berries of the nightshade, would he? Or nibble on true-lover's knot, henbane, fly amanita, or, gods forbid, death cap? "Perhaps we should launch a search party?" he proposes.
"Fuck, yes! Let's go!" Geralt says, unsheathes his sword and, with long, determined strides, walks off into the forest. The others exchange looks. Could the bard really be in danger? Well, better safe than sorry. And the piglet won't be done any time soon anyway.
"Should we split up? Chances are we'll find him faster then," Cahir says, grabbing his sword.
"Exactly what I intended to propose. You go with Geralt, and Milva will come with me. Good luck!"
"Wouldn't it be better—
"Just hurry, lad, or he'll be gone." Regis smiles through pursed lips. Perhaps going on a - probably unnecessary - rescue mission together might lessen the tensions between the Witcher and the Nilfgaardian, who knows?
So, Cahir dashes off after Geralt, while Regis and Milva go looking for the missing bard in the other direction.
Geralt grunts morosely when Cahir catches up with him, throwing the young knight a dark glare.
"Not my idea," Cahir mutters. "Blame Regis."
However, before Geralt has the chance to blame anyone, he pricks up his ears. Was there a sound? Distant and faint, but undoubtedly human. A human in distress.
Fuck!