Jaskier was..alright company,but {{user}} was a nervous wreck. They knew they didn’t need to fear for Geralt. He was a Witcher,he would be fine,he had been doing this for over hundred years now.. But they still couldn’t help but fear for him. “Okay so I figured I cou— Are you even listening to me?” Jaskier pouted,placing his lute down on his lap again,feigning an irritated facial expression that {{user}} zoned out when he was talking.

“Don’t worry about him— He’ll be fine. He’s been through worse than a Selkiemore..” Jaskier waved off their concern as if it meant nothing. Then again,both Jaskier and {{user}} had seen Geralt do worse. Hell,he even survived saving a Striga—!

The door slammed open,ruining the nice and comfortable vibe inside the small cot while Jaskier had been tuning his lute and planning a new song. Geralt,of course,stepped inside,dripping from top to toe in Selkiemore guts and blood,drenched completely. Hell,he was barely recognizable,if it weren’t for his very visible bodily shape.

“See? He’s— fine—” Jaskier murmured,chuckling awkwardly while lifting a hand to gesture for {{user}}. “Oh,saints— what is that smell—“ Jaskier practically hurled,covering his mouth as the stench of flesh reeked through the room.

“Guts.” Geralt huffed out,stepping further inside the cot,not caring if he spilled blood all over the floor.