#oc warning

((Widomauk or Shadowidomauk, Mollymauk makes it back to Wildemount after a sea battle along the coast that leaves him worse for wear, his ship sunk, and only his first mate to protect them, he reaches out to the Nein…whom he had been coming to surprise. 18+))

This was bad. This was beyond bad. Mollymauk, formerly known as Kingsley, was in the back of a tavern that had given them shelter after his first mate had gotten him off board the sinking ship. An old enemy of Lucien’s, damn the name and the curse that seems to follow him, had spotted his brightly colored self and set their sights on their crew. Molly had suffered a sword right through his center, and was waiting for a healer to be found. “V-Val…Val the st..stone.” He rasped, the Drow all but straddling him to keep him still and keep anyone away. She dug in his battered and burned coat and grabbed the one he described, shoving it in his hand. “Call them. NOW.” She ordered. 

Roach was running as fast as she could with two riders, but it was jostling both of them pretty intensely—and his bard’s condition needed stillness, calm, care, not a rough horseback ride. However, they had no choice. When his friend was taken ill, they were in the middle of nowhere, barely finishing a kill. He had not noticed the ailment until Jaskier had collapsed while walking next to Roach. He felt some sort of odd sensation in his stomach—must be guilt. He had ignored the bard’s usual complaining. He was like a needy puppy—always asking for attention—so he had assumed it was merely that desire since he was preoccupied with a hunt. 

Of course, the one time he decided to not pay any attention to the complaints was the one time they were serious. He had fallen to the ground, completely unconscious, and burning up in fever. Upon waking he had immediately vomited, and quickly grew less and less coherent. Originally, Geralt had intended to wait the illness out for a day or so, then make the travel to the next town. However, when a day went by and Jaskier was still very sick—worse, even—he had decided they needed to haul ass to whoever might be able to help. He could only hope that the day lost in seeking treatment would not prove fatal. 

Jaskier suddenly sputtered to life—coughing, retching, moaning—and Geralt immediately pulled Roach to a stop and dismounted. He was still burning up, but impossibly pale—lips blue, skin grey, eyes glassy. He coughed and retched for a moment unproductively as Geralt gently rested one hand on his shoulder to keep him from collapsing. Jaskier hadn’t eaten or drank anything in a day, so there was nothing to throw up. He breathed a shuddering, hitching breath. 

“Geralt,” he moaned. 

“I’m right here, what do you need?” he felt like the other man’s blue eyes could burn a hole in his skin. There was an air of vulnerability to this that the nearly untouchable Witcher was very uncomfortable with. 

“Don’t leave m’here.” his words were slurred and far from his usual quick wit.

“I would never, bard. Come on, let’s go. We need to get you some help.” 

Jaskier sobbed. “Hurts…” 

“I know it does. We need to get moving, the sooner we get to this town, the sooner we can rid you of your pain.” 

The bard moaned and went limp in Geralt’s arms. He picked him up and set him back on Roach. Jaskier had always been smaller than him, but now he was impossibly light and frail. His doublet hung lightly out of the pocket on Roach’s back and the linen shirt he wore was filthy, soaked in sweat and vomit. There was nothing else they had for him to wear. 

—

They finally reached a small, but bustling town, just as the sun was setting. It appeared that the local food market was closing down. Geralt dismounted Roach and led her, with Jaskier now shivering atop the saddle, into town. 

“Is there a doctor here?” his voice came out threatening, desperate. Different than he had heard it ever before.

A small, older man looked up at the bard, still moaning, then back down to Geralt. “You’ll need magic to fix that one,” he said. “Due east from here there is a lake, can’t miss it. Ring the bell at the dock. There is a woman who lives on the island in the lake. She can fix anyone.”

“How long will it take me to get there?” 

“Only about fifteen minutes, if your horse’s fast. Her name is Epione. She’s the best in the business.” 

Geralt grunted and pulled Jaskier back to a seated position. He managed a “thank you” as he got back on to Roach, and took off. 

Seven minutes of worrying silence went by on Roach’s back, pierced only by Jaskier’s labored breathing. Labored breathing became moaning, and moaning became wailing. Every jostle on Roach’s back was suddenly like agony, and Geralt decided to dismount and carry the bard in his arms, Roach following dutifully. They were swiftly running out of time, and the woods were dark. He wanted to bolt, to run, to sprint, but he could not do much more than a brisk walk without the dark-haired man screaming in pain. 

Jaskier moaned his companion’s name. “Please,” 

“Please, what? What do you need?” 

“Help, G’ralt, please,” he said, wheezing. A wet cough escaped his lips. 

“We’re almost there, I promise,” Geralt tried to comfort his traveling musician. He wasn’t sure his promise was true, but Jaskier was so delirious, he probably wouldn’t remember this if—when—he recovered. He didn’t want to think about what he would do if his friend did not become himself again. “You should try to drink something,” 

“Can’t…I’ll be sick,” he looked up at Geralt with blue eyes, diluted with fever. “Already wanna be sick.” His breathing quickened, wheezing. 

“Hm.” Geralt sped up his pace as much as possible without causing undue pain. Well, more undue pain. 

—

They emerged from the forest onto a beach. A rocky beach, with a lake, the lake with an island, the island with a cottage. There was a small dock going out onto the water, and a bell attached to a pole on the dock. There was a sign near the bell, written in English, and in runes. It simply read “Epione’s Home. Ring for crossing.” There was a pole for horses, and a small trough on the beach. Geralt quickly tied up Roach, and walked over to the bell, reluctantly ringing it. Jaskier moaned and buried his head into Geralt’s shirt at the sound. 

A woman suddenly appeared from the forest behind them. “Can I help you?” she said. Geralt spun around, surprised that his heightened senses didn’t notice her earlier. He was a little preoccupied. 

“I’m Epione, the keeper of this place,” she said, cautiously walking closer. She was small, but had strong arms, concealed under a long sleeved shirt and linen overdress. Her long hair was in a braid, coiled at the back of her head into a bun. “I heard screaming, and I thought you may be coming to seek treatment. Please, come, and untie your horse. I have a safe place for her on the island.” She gestured toward the water and a wooden bridge appeared, rising from the still waters of the lake. She was calm, measured. Despite her young appearance, she seemed accustomed to situations such as these. 

“You must be Geralt of Rivia, the witcher,” her footsteps were near silent on the bridge. “I’ve heard the stories about you. What’s going on with your friend here?”

“Are you an elf? A mage? How are you doing this?” Geralt was on high alert. He stepped cautiously on to the wooden bridge, and Roach dutifully followed. She seemed human, but not mage, and definitely not an elf. 

Epione shrugged. “Well, that’s not an answer to my question, but, I guess I’m a mage of sorts. The kind of magic I use is ancient—older than elves. It has been in my family for generations, and I have resolved to use it for good, not for violence.” 

Geralt was silent, staring straight ahead. That seemed like a fair answer. He could not sense dishonesty. 

“So, now that you know my life story, what’s his? His name? What’s going on?” 

“This is Jaskier, my… traveling companion. Two days ago he collapsed after a hunt, and he has been like this since.” 

“Hm. What kind of symptoms?” The light of the moon revealed her ginger hair and freckled skin. 

Jaskier moaned before Geralt could respond. He coughed before muttering “D-don’ leave me, Geralt, pl-please,” 

“I won’t, Jaskier. This girl can help you,” Geralt said, as reassuringly as he could. “Can you tell her what’s been going on?”

Jaskier was silent. 

Epione came nearer to the man. “I’ll get you fixed up soon, I promise,” she said, smiling softly. He met eyes with her, nodded slowly, and with a long, shuddering breath went back to resting his head on Geralt’s chest. 

—

As they stepped foot onto the island, the wooden bridge disappeared. The cottage on the island brightened with candlelight. Epione led them inside and gestured to a bed in the front of the room. There was a small cabinet nearby, covered with herbs, poultices, bottles of elixirs and full of who knows what else. A fire in the stone fireplace grew, seemingly from a smolder. Geralt laid Jaskier on the bed, and the dark-haired man grasped weakly at Geralt’s shirt. 

“No, Geralt, no, nonono no no,” he started getting agitated, breathing faster. 

Geralt was about to step in when the small girl crouched by the bed. “Shh, it’s alright, songbird,” she said, gently turning his head to look at her. “You’re safe here.” He immediately began to calm as soon as he met eyes with her. His breathing was labored, and he winced in pain, but he was silent. 

“Do you know where you are?” she was cupping his cheek in one hand, stroking his temple with her thumb. Her other hand was deftly unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Mmh, no… who are you?” He went into a fit of coughing, and her hand started gently rubbing circles into his now bare chest. “My name is Epione, I’m the healer here, and keeper of the pool.” She turned her head, hands still working on Jaskier’s clammy skin. “Geralt, would you mind filling this with some fresh water from the lake? We need to start working on getting that fever down, and quick,” she handed Geralt a small wooden bucket, with some rags inside. Geralt nodded silently and did as he was asked. 

Upon returning inside, Epione smiled at him and whispered her thanks. As she began placing the rags strategically, wiping the days-old sweat off his body, Geralt felt another pang of guilt. Jaskier’s stomach was red, bruised, swollen, angry-looking, and he had no idea. He didn’t even look, and this stranger immediately knew what to do. He was snapped out of his own thoughts by a soft whimper from Jaskier when Epione placed a cloth over his forehead and eyes. 

They were silent for a few seconds while Epione placed a hand gently on his stomach.  “Has he been vomiting?” she said, eyes trained on her patient. 

“Yes,”

“How much?” 

Geralt thought for a moment. “Basically every time he eats or drinks something.”

“Hm. He is pretty dehydrated. Any tenderness in the abdominal area?” 

“I think so. He got to where he couldn’t tolerate riding the horse.” 

Epione sighed. “I’ll be right back, hold on for just a minute,” she said softly to Jaskier. She stood up and gestured for Geralt to come outside. He lingered inside for a moment, eyes trained on the heaving rise and fall of the bard’s chest.

“So, I don’t want to frighten you, not that I think you are frightened by many things, Witcher,” Epione said, softly. “But I think I know what may be wrong with him, and the treatment is, well, complicated.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt growled. Just what he was worried about. 

“I think this is an infection of an internal organ, one we don’t know the purpose of. However, removal of this organ does not appear to be harmful, but it is complicated by what I think is a rupture of that organ.” She sighed. “Basically, what I’m saying is, I’m going to have to cut him open and find out.”

“When?” 

“Sooner rather than later. The longer we wait the more the infection spreads.” 

“Hm. If it must be done then it must be done. He’s in a bad way.” 

Epione nodded. “Thankfully, I can numb the area with magic, and we’ll do our best to keep him calm. I’m sure I’ll need your help, if you don’t mind,” she said, smiling. “He seems pretty attached to you. You must have been friends for a long time.” 

Geralt allowed a hint of a smile to cross his face. 

—

“Jaskier, wake up,” Geralt said, quietly. 

“Mmh, no, want to sleep,” moaned Jaskier. 

“I want you to wake up at least for a minute. We need to talk about what we can do to treat you,” 

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. Geralt was crouched by the bed. Epione was standing behind him, wearing a stark white apron over her dress, her hands and nails so clean they near sparkled. She pulled up a chair next to Geralt, smiling softly. She brought a small glass to Jaskier’s lips. “You need to drink something, sweetheart,” she said. He took a cautious sip. “It won’t kill you, I promise. It’s just for pain and to calm your nerves.” He took another sip as she began gently stroking his lower belly. Her hands began to glow, as if they were lit from inside. 

“Look at me, bard,” Geralt said, firmly. Jaskier slowly turned toward his friend. “I like you,” he said. Geralt shook his head. “You must have finished your tea,” he said. A stifled laugh bubbled up from Epione. 

“How are you feeling, songbird?” she said, calmly. Geralt noticed a small, sharp knife being cleaned in her hands. 

Jaskier frowned. “My tummy feels funny,” 

Epione looked at Geralt. “I’m going to do something that’s gonna make you feel so much better, sweetheart,” she said, turning back to her patient. “But I need you to keep looking at Geralt, okay? You’re probably going to feel some pulling, and your legs will probably fall asleep, but there shouldn’t be any pain at all, alright?” 

Jaskier nodded, his head lolling. “My head feels…h-hot…and my legs feel cold,” he said, to no one in particular. His breathing was still labored, but he was clearly not concerned about anything that was happening. Epione glanced toward Geralt and met his eyes. Geralt placed his hand on the bard’s cheek, brushing his hair out of his eyes. It was his job to make sure Jaskier didn’t look at what Epione was doing. Both of them agreed that it would be too panic-inducing for him to know what was happening. After the fact is different, but during… him keeping still was the most important thing. 

“Hey, Jaskier,” said Epione, after about 30 seconds of quiet. She had silently made her first cut, deftly, like a dance. “Why don’t you sing a song for us?” Geralt could hear the sounds of her rummaging around in Jaskier’s stomach. Smart, he thought. “I’d love to hear some straight from the source, not from the copycats we have here in town,” she said, her eyes smiling, preoccupied with both hands inside of the incision. 

“See, Geralt, sssssomebody appreciates my t-talents,” he slurred. Geralt only scoffed in response. “Fair lady, of…of…of course I’ll ssssing for y-you.” The irony of Jaskier, flirting with a woman who actively was rummaging around in his guts, was not lost on Geralt. 

He began to sing, breathy and shaky, but his voice all the same. 

The fairer sex, they often call it 

Epione sliced something inside of Jaskier’s body and tossed it, bloody, into a dish on the floor. 

But her love’s as unfair as a crook 

She looked around inside, scraping, slicing, sprinkling with a small vial of water. 

It steals all my reason

Geralt watched Jaskier’s face paling considerably despite the relatively small amount of blood lost. 

Commits every treason

Jaskier grimaced and flinched, breathing quickly and heavily now, but didn’t stop singing. 

Of logic, with naught but a look

Geralt felt him press against his hand, desperately trying to turn and look at the woman working. He shook his head and mouthed “No,” to the smaller man. 

A storm breaking on the horizon

Jaskier started to trail off as Epione began to stitch up the three-inch wound. “Come on, sweetheart, stay with me,” she said. “I’m almost done, finish your song,” 

Of longing and heartache and lust

Geralt gently tapped Jaskier’s cheek as he moaned. “Wake up, Jaskier, keep singing. This may be the only time you hear me say that, so take advantage of it,” 

She’s always bad news 

Stitching, 

It’s always lose, lose

and pulling, 

So tell me love, tell me love

“You’re doing great, songbird, almost done,” said Epione.

How is that just? 

Epione joined in quietly in the chorus, in an effort to keep his focus away from her work. 

But the story is this—

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

Her sweet kiss

She wiped off the incision area and applied a bandage. 

But the story is this

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

“All done, Jaskier,” she said, after covering his lower body with the blanket. Geralt moved his hand and sighed. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. She took a clean rag and wiped the sweat from his face. He grimaced and arched his back. “You were so brave, sweetheart.” 

“Did-did you like my song?” he said, breathless, chest thick with sickness, still burning with fever. 

“Yes, darling, it was lovely,” she said, smiling. She tenderly stroked his face. “You’ll be a little sore tomorrow, but you can rest now.” 

He was already asleep. 

Geralt turned to look at her, silently, his jaw set. She was hanging her apron, facing away from him. She was making herself vulnerable. She was not afraid. It was almost annoying to see, due to the fact that every nerve in his body was still screaming, his friend was in danger, and he just let a complete stranger cut him, on purpose. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said. “Although, it’s not the first time I’ve had daggers stared into my back. You just aren’t used to being read so easily. But that’s alright,” she turned to face him, stoking her fireplace. “I won’t tell a soul.” She smiled. 

“Hm.”

“Well, since you’re staying the night, you can choose your bed,” she said. “I usually sleep in the bed upstairs, it’s yours if you want it. I’ll be waking up every hour and a half or so to wake him, as counterproductive as that may seem, so I’ll sleep here. Of course, you can always choose to sleep down here with us, if you’d like.” She removed her overdress, revealing a simple cotton chemise. Her braid seemed to uncoil itself from the bun, reaching halfway down her back. “I will warn you, though, you’ll get more rest upstairs. And you look like you need it.” 

Geralt turned back to Jaskier, his hand now resting on the man’s chest. He felt like if he moved, Jaskier may stop breathing. But he was exhausted. The last hunt had not been kind to him, and this whole…situation came immediately after. 

“I…don’t get much sleep even on my best days,” he said, his voice coming out much more callous than his heart felt. 

“Well, tomorrow, we will go down to the Pool,” said the small woman, now sitting next to him. She cautiously placed her hand on his knee. “The waters are enchanted, and can assist with many things, insomnia included. They should speed up the healing process. He’ll still have to stay here for…well, three or four days to be safe,” she leaned down, turning her head until she was pushing her way in to Geralt’s line of sight. “For which I’m guessing I’ll have not one guest, but two,” she said, smirking. 

“I suppose so,” he said, rising. “I’m going to check on Roach.”

“I feel like a horse so beautiful should have a more beautiful name,” said Epione.  “Would you mind refilling this?” she handed him the bucket, full of water now filthy with blood and remnants of infection. “Oh, and,” she opened the cabinet, removing a small lump of sugar from a bag. “Give this to…Roach, and tell her she’s a very good girl,” 

Geralt smirked. She had no idea how good Roach really was. 

After updating Roach on the night’s events, he returned with the clean bucket.

The girl was already asleep. 

Jaskier’s bed had been fortified with more strategically placed pillows than Geralt could count, and the girl slept with a single pillow and small blanket on a cot next to the bed. 

There was a third cot, empty, with an extra pillow and blanket folded neatly on top of it, and a note. The note was written in neat, yet blocky script. She must usually write in runes. 

Witcher, Geralt of Rivia-

Thank you for your dutiful assistance to me and my patient. I’m sure I speak for both of us when I say it is greatly appreciated. 

Please, feel free to help yourself to the pantry, and adjust the fire to your liking. And expect a fresh, hot, homemade breakfast in the morning. It’s my pleasure.

-E

P.S. Please consider joining us in the Pool tomorrow. I think you will find it worthwhile.

—

Geralt jolted awake to the sound of a choked sob. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” 

The girl was already awake. A few strands of hair had fallen out of her braid during the night. The fire was smoldering, and the first light of dawn was coming in the window. He had to reluctantly admit to himself that the girl was right. He was exhausted. He had expected to wake every time she had risen, and instead had abandoned his companion by sleeping through the night. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” said Jaskier, wheezing, lips blue, face wet with tears. “I’m dying,” 

“You aren’t dying, songbird. I promise. I wouldn’t let that happen.” 

“What’s going on?” 

“The infection spread to his chest before I could treat it,” said Epione, eyes bright despite the early hour. “Here, watch him for a minute,” she hopped off her cot, barefoot, nearly gliding over to the cupboard of medicines. “I can fix this but it’ll take me a moment. Oh, good morning, by the way.” 

“Yeah, what a great way to wake up, very…relaxing,” Geralt said, moving to the bard’s bedside. 

Epione scoffed. “Don’t take this out on me, Witcher,” her speech was muffled, a vial of herbs in her hand and the cork in her mouth. “It helps not a single one of us, and especially not him.” 

“Sorry, I just…Fuck. Nevermind.” 

“Geralt?” Jaskier broke into a fit of coughing. Wet coughing. Epione tossed a rag on Geralt’s cot. Blood began seeping from Jaskier’s parted lips. His face was so pale it almost appeared gray. 

“Hey, uh… you’re going to be fine,” said the witcher. This felt so…tender. He owed it to Jaskier, for all the times he had insisted on patching up Geralt after a rough fight, or a rougher break-up. He realized that he was wiping the blood from his lips, and gripping his hand. The gesture came naturally, seemingly from a part of Geralt’s heart he didn’t himself have access to. Jaskier was shaking like a leaf in autumn wind. He was gasping for breath. 

“I thought… I was dreaming,” he said, throat seized, with fear or with sickness; Geralt didn’t know. 

“What did you dream?” 

“Geralt of Rivia caring to hear my dream,” Jaskier laid back into the pillow. “Now I know it is a dream,” he laughed, a humorless laugh, that swiftly became another coughing fit. 

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt growled. “Stay awake, this is real,” his piercing golden eyes trained on the soft blue ones before him, feeling like if he looked long enough it would keep the other man from falling asleep again.

“I was dreaming, that…” the blue eyes closed in a grimace of pain. An arched back. A keening whine. “…There was, this woman, and I was so afraid, but when I looked at her, it was like I knew, everything was okay,” the eyes opened, soft, raspy speech broken by heaving, rattling breaths. “It felt like, she was,” the eyes closed again, seeking for a word. 

“An angel?” said Epione, appearing at Geralt’s side, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Drink, love,” she tipped a glass to his lips. “Drink and rest.” Her other hand moved Geralt’s to the glass. She met eyes with him. The soft green communicated “I know, and I care.”

Not a sentiment Geralt was used to meeting. 

—

Upon finishing the drink, Jaskier immediately calmed, apparently content with doing nothing but staring half-lidded at the ceiling. He was moving his lips, but no sound came out, and it didn’t seem concerning to him, so it wasn’t concerning to Geralt. 

He leaned back onto the cot, training his ears to the sound of the bard’s breathing slowing down and evening out. He tried to calm himself enough to sense more than his own uncharacteristically quick heartbeat. 

The scent of the fireplace, glowing, complimented by the scent of many loaves of bread long past.

Jaskier’s scent, flowery, sullied by illness and weakened by blood loss, but his.

And a third scent, like salty seawater, and something else. Something hard, unyielding, but natural.

The girl sighed and sat on his cot. The smell was seawater and granite, eroding, beaten over and over by eons of tides. 

“Some say it’s because we are from Sirens,” she said, unprompted. She had put on her overdress, and the braid was back in its conservative bun.

“What?”

“Everything. Our smell, our lake, our eyes,” The light of the rising sun made her skin appear as orange as her hair. “The women in my family have tended this place for centuries. Legend has it that whatever in our blood that isn’t human is from a Siren. A long time ago, Sirens and men got along.” 

She rose from the cot. “But, you know that already, don’t you.” Another sigh, when Geralt didn’t respond, thinking.

“Fresh eggs for breakfast? How does that sound? I’m sure the chickens have laid something,” 

“Fine,” said Geralt. 

The healer began to pull on her leather shoes and leave. 

“Epione?” she turned with a questioning look. “Thank you,” said Geralt. “What…payment…will you require?” 

“Your thanks is enough,” she said, her lips pursed in a suppressed smile. “Coin is only good for the good it can do.” 

The door closed behind her, and Geralt and Jaskier were alone.

—

Jaskier’s voice rose to a whisper. Geralt was about to shush him, try to get him to rest, when he realized what he was saying.

Her current is pulling you closer

And charging the hot, humid night 

The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool

Better stay out of sight

“She’s missing verse two, Jaskier, she left,” said Geralt, quietly. He put his hand on his companion’s cheek. “You’ll have to sing it for her when she comes back,” 

Jaskier’s eyes shut tightly. His voice rose even more, cracked, raspy, disused, but audible.

I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting 

A tear tracked its way down his cheek, pallid, soft. 

If this is the path I must trudge

I welcome my sentence

Give to you my penance

Garrotter, jury, and judge

Epione cracked open the door slowly, basket of eggs in tow. She began humming softly, along with Jaskier’s lyrics; soft dulcet tones despite recent trauma. Geralt closed his eyes, taking in the scene, comfortably…domestic. 

The song was broken up by the sound of an egg suddenly sizzling on a hot pan. 

—

“Eat, Geralt,” said the woman, pushing a plate of eggs into his hands. “I have some soup for our ‘invalid,’ if he wakes before it’s time to venture out,” she smiled.

“Was I asleep?” Geralt rubbed his eyes. Jaskier was mostly still, except for the soft rise and fall of his chest.

“I think so,” she said. “Either that or lost in thought, maybe.” 

Jaskier stirred, groaning. His eyes shut tight before opening, clearing the remnants of sleep. 

“Hey, Jaskier,” said Geralt. “How are you feeling?” 

He thought for a moment. His brow furrowed. “Like shit,” he said. Across the room, Epione let out the purest laugh Geralt had heard since they had met mere hours earlier. 

“Welcome back,” he said, smiling.

He tried to rise, sucking in air and clutching his right side. “Owww, Geralt,” he whined. “What did you do?” 

“What did I do? How is this my fault, bard?” He shook his head, already exasperated. It was an odd feeling, to be happy that you are annoyed.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just that whenever something is deeply wrong with me, it has something to do with this guy I can’t stop hanging out with that has this whole ‘monster fighting’ thing going on,” said Jaskier, shaking hands gesturing to the best of their ability. 

“You can blame it on me, songbird,” said Epione. “I’m sure your witcher would have stopped me if he had any other choice.” She sat down with the wooden bowl, half full of broth. 

“Well hello there, fair lady,” he said. “Do we know each other?” 

“I’ve seen your insides, so I suppose so,” she said with a smirk, holding the spoon to his lips. “Now hush and let the grown-ups talk, my dear,” she chuckled. 

Jaskier opened his mouth in protest, only to be met with a mouthful of broth.