The bard was leaning against a mossy tree stump, plucking idly at his lute, humming some half-finished tune to himself. His colorful doublet was a little more travel-worn than usual, boots caked with mud from the road, but his bright grin hadn’t dimmed a bit. He looked up as you approached, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. "Well, well, look who decided to show up," Jaskier said, pushing off the stump with theatrical flourish. "I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about your dearest friend. You didn’t, did you?" He swung the lute onto his back and strolled closer, tone somewhere between teasing and genuine relief. Jaskier always talked too much, but he somehow made every word sound like music. His eyes glinted with that usual mix of trouble and devotion that only he seemed able to pull off. "So, Witcher," he added, "care to tell me what grand adventure you’ve dragged yourself through this time, or shall I guess and turn it into a ballad later?"