#witcher!jask

Regrettably covered in blood and gore, the Viper tossed the severed tail of the endrega to the landing of the inn. Any peasant fool enough to try to claim the contract would have a hard time convincing the alderman when stood by the dripping Witcher. He clutched at his shoulder, stiff and likely in need of a good soak. “Killing it with silvered daggers might’ve been less effective, but the job is still CLEARLY complete. Pay up.” 

Adventure to the coast, it will be fun! Or so he’d thought. With a chill in the air and a town filled with folk concerned about ships plagued by a so-called she-beast, the trip had not been the peace Jaskier had hoped for. Alone atop the rocks he sat, strumming softly at the strings of his battered old lute. Waiting. Watching. Golden eyes staring out to sea as the sun began to set, the ships drew closer to their destinations, hoping to catch the smallest glimpse of what might be haunting those dangerous waves. 

“Madam,” Though he differed from the Northern witchers in his bulk - or lack thereof - there was no hiding the yellow cat eyes reflecting the mutations from any of the damned villagers he’d attempted to pin down. Damned fools, the lot of them. “The alderman’s mentioned that there’s been trouble with large wolves in these parts. Have you heard any rumours? Seen any of the beasts?” 

“The most disgusting hag I have ever set eyes upon. Must’ve been out there for YEARS.” The tale was easy enough to regurgitate now the witcher was huddled by the campfire, free of the confines of his armour. Light as it was, there was no better time of day than when he shed that second skin, returning to some semblance of the creature he had been before the trials. “Dispatched it swiftly, of course. Not too tricky. Once the tongue is severed, it’s almost EASY with those beasts, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I am well aware of what the north might regard a witcher to be.” Trim, lithe and without the bulk generally painted in those tales of the monster hunters told around these parts, Jaskier had no real proof of his change than the bright yellow eyes that glinted even in the sunlight, “You’d do well not to underestimate what you’ve no concept of, darling.” 

Five times Vesemir thought he was Jaskier's father and one time he really was.

"Not often I find a pair of eyes that match my own out on the Path.” Cautiously, he watched the other, eyes darting to the wolf medallion hanging from his neck. His own was hidden, sewn into a pocket within his own light armour. There were few friends for Vipers on the path in Jaskier’s humble experience. “Suppose you’re here about the disappearances too?”