Chapter Text
How Jaskier had convinced Geralt to accompany him, he would never know.
This late in the fall, Geralt ought to have been on the way to Kaer Mohren. But he had taken one look at Jaskier’s planned route to his winter court and invited himself along. Jaskier had asked him why more than once, but Geralt had given him no answer beyond grunts and, once, the word “Dangerous”. After that, Jaskier decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Geralt was willing to accompany him across the mountains, Jaskier would be the last to complain. There were, after all, plenty of other things to complain about.
Chief among these things was the cold. Jaskier felt frozen to his very bones. This was not surprising, given the chill wind that howled through the mountain pass. It was also not something he was willing to keep to himself. He complained about the cold at every opportunity, despite Geralt refusing to acknowledge his remarks. He disliked the wind, which whipped away the warmth from his body; he disliked the snow, and how it soaked into his boots; most of all, he disliked the frost which bit at his fingers, making it impossible to play.
The higher they climbed into the mountains, the colder it got. At first, Jaskier’s complaints rose inversely to the temperature, until the cold sank so deep into his bones that he did not have the energy to complain any further. When snow started to fall once again, he felt only a deep exhaustion threaten to overwhelm him. He would never make it to the city for his season in the royal court. He ought to have taken the low pass like everyone else, even if it had added weeks to his journey. The shorter pass that cut higher through the mountains separating Lundar from the rest of the world would claim his life. He stopped in the middle of the path, breathing heavily. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He bit them back, not sure what would be worse: the chill from the water on his cheeks, or Geralt’s inevitable derision.
A few paces ahead, Geralt came to a halt. Jaskier hunched his shoulders and hid his face when Geralt turned, hoping to preserve at least some shred of dignity. He did not look up when he heard Geralt approach. He paused within arm’s reach of Jaskier. Before Jaskier worked up the will to ask what he was doing, he felt something heavy and warm settle around his shoulders. For a fraction of a second, his mind reeled with confusion, trying to reconcile the smell of leather and sweat and blood when Geralt still stood an arm’s reach from him. Then his mind caught up with reality, and he huddled under the cloak Geralt had wrapped around his shoulders. It was much to large for Jaskier, but he could not deny the warmth. He looked himself up and down, and a frown started to tug at his lips.
“Geralt, how many of the stains on this are blood?”
There was a brief pause as Geralt considered the question. “My blood, or blood in general?”
“Geralt!”
One corner of Geralt’s lips twitched. Without a word, he turned and resumed his trudge up the mountain path. He did not seem at all discouraged by the loss of his cloak, which Jaskier grudgingly chalked up to the overall state of his dress. As dearly as he would like to blame it on Witcher mutations, Geralt knew how to dress for winter. Thick leathers and furs padded out his usual armour. Was this, Jaskier wondered, how he would look when he returned home to Kaer Morhern? It was rare for the two of them to be together so late in the season. Perhaps if he was used to harsh winters, the week-long delay in his trip would not seem too dreadful.
He amused himself with thoughts about Kaer Mohren for the rest of the day. Geralt was taciturn as always on the topic, possibly even more so than he was about anything else. Most of what Jaskier knew he had cobbled together from off-hand remarks and old stories about witchers. One day, he promised himself, he would convince Geralt to tell him about his home. If he was very, very lucky, he may even be honoured with a visit. In the meantime, he would make do with what scraps he could gather from stories.
As warm as Geralt’s cloak was, Jaskier found himself shivering again come dusk. He set his bedroll as close to the fire as he dared and curled up into a small ball beneath his blanket. Shortly after he settled down, he heard Geralt settle behind him. It was only when Geralt’s knees bumped against the back of Jaskier’s thighs that he realized just how close he had come. Jaskier started, twisting to see what Geralt was doing. Geralt froze. Jaskier was reminded of nothing so much as a prey animal caught before a hunter, frozen in place. The concept of ‘prey’ and ‘Geralt’ were ordinary worlds apart, but the thought would not leave Jaskier’s mind, even when Geralt lay down and tucked his arm under his head for a pillow.
“You’re cold,” Geralt said, and looked away. After a few seconds of confusion, Jaskier grinned. They had shared bedrolls before to stave off cold, always after hours of Jaskier begging and pleading. Geralt had always agreed begrudgingly, muttering complaints under his breath and generally acting surlier than usual to make up for the deed. He could count on one hand the number of times he had offered it unpromtped – and it was an offer, of that Jaskier had no doubt. Nothing else could unsettle Geralt so easily. As dearly as he wanted to thank Geralt properly, he knew enough of his friend to know how uncomfortable thanks would make him. If Jaskier thanked him for showing concern, he would likely retreat to the other side of the campfire. So for once, Jaskier kept his mouth shut. He accepted the offer by pressing his body against Geralt’s without a word. He spent a few moments wiggling and squirming to get comfortable. Once settled, he let out a happy little sigh and tucked his face against Geralt’s neck, sheltering it from the cold. He may not have managed Geralt-friendly levels of apathy, but at least he had not added insult to injury by drawing attention to his kindness.
The next morning, they continued on. When they stopped for the night again, Geralt said,
“I thought you’d been to this place before.”
“There’s a second pass. It would take over two weeks to even reach it, and then I’d miss the ceremony they’re throwing to welcome their winter artists. This one will bring us out within a day’s ride of the capital.”
There was a pause, then Geralt spoke. “You’re an idiot.”
Jaskier groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
They shared their bedrolls again that night. The same happened the next night and the next, until at last they passed below the reach of the mountain snow. Each night still brought a bitter frost, but the danger was past.
As they descended into the valley, Jaskier marveled at the country around them. There was little flat land in the valley kingdom, so the gardens were built in a tiered system. A lake pooled in the base of the valley, crowned by the capital city. In the evening, the city lights glimmered in the reflection of the lake.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt grunted. While his response lacked enthusiasm, Jaskier did not miss the way his eyes glanced up from the fire to look. His eyes lingered for several moments before returning to their evening meal with a tiny smile. The observation brought a pleasant warmth to Jaskier’s chest. Too much of the world Geralt had seen was made of mud and clay and filth. He deserved beauty in life, even if he was too stubborn to properly appreciate it. Satisfied that his companion was not in a foul enough mood to complain, Jaskier took to composing. Yes, he had all winter to work on his repertoire, but he would not pass up inspiration when it came. It was no wonder, he thought, that this small country had become a centre for art. Even a philistine would be moved by the beauty in this land.
“You know, you should rest a while before setting out for Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier said as they approached the city. The stony glare Geralt gave him in response to that would have sent chills down the spine of most men. Jaskier tutted and shook his head.
“Don’t give me that look. Even you must be tired after the nights we spent in the pass.”
“Jaskier - “
“And even if you’re not, Roach could use a rest.”
A peculiar look passed over Geralt’s face. His lips pressed together and his brow furrowed slightly. Jaskier had to restrain himself from whooping and punching the air at the sight of it. There were few things that could make Geralt look so constipated, and losing an argument was one of them.
“One night.”
It was not what Jaskier had hoped for, but for Geralt, it was a huge concession. “One night will make all the difference, my friend.”
Jaskier chattered away as they made their way through the city, but even he did not listen to his words. He was too busy craning his neck to take in every last detail of the city. Jaskier could only assume the main road through the city kept them well away from the slums, as every building he could see was gorgeous. Many of them held gardens on the rooftop, filling the city with a sweet floral scent on top of the usual urban stench of nightsoil and decay. When they passed near the market, he saw a collection of street vendors cooking and selling food skewered in sticks or wrapped in leftover newspaper. Best of all, it seemed like every square they passed had some kind of live performance.
“Geralt. Geralt, I think I’m in love.”
Geralt grunted.
“I mean it. Look at this city, look – the gardens, Geralt! The fashion! The food!”
There was no response from Geralt, but Jaskier had not expected one. He was more than content to fill the silence himself.
The castle was built on the very edge of the lake itself, covered in the tiered gardens seen all over the city. The guard at the gate took one look at Geralt and opened his mouth, plainly intending to redirect them to somewhere common mercenaries were sent. Quick as a flash, Jaskier stepped forward and presented his letter of invitation. The guard led them to a steward, who led them to a more important steward, until finally a man oozing with obsequious enthusiasm showed them to Jaskier’s room.
“We’re so delighted you’ve come. The Queen is ever so excited for tonight’s ceremony. I’m told she has a special interest in your particular style of ballad.”
The last piece of advice was delivered with a wink as the man opened the door to Jaskier’s quarters. Jaskier’s jaw dropped. The corridor opened on to a small sitting area containing a few settees and armchairs. Two other doors led off from the waiting room. The door on the right was locked, but the one to the left opened up onto a spacious bedroom. A large four-poster bed piled high with pillows and furs was visible from the corridor.
“Gods, you could hold an orgy in this thing,” Jaskier said, running his fingers through one of the dark brown furs. Upon further investigation, he found a little seat by a window accompanied by a stand for music, two large wardrobes, and an entire room dedicated to bathing. The bath itself sunk low into the floor. As Jaskier stared at the bath with something like lust, the attendant demonstrated the taps that filled the bath with steaming water on command.
“That’s a powerful enchantment to spend on a bard,” Geralt said. Jaskier huffed, turning and pouting at him. A small frown tugged on Geralt’s lips, and he paid no attention to Jaskier’s dismay. The attendant smiled politely, but his eyes flickered towards the exit.
“Our engineers may not be as renowned as our artists or wines, but they are equally accomplished. All water for the castle baths is pumped through a central chamber. It is the chamber that holds the enchantment.”
“Also, I’m worth it,” Jaskier insisted. Geralt’s frown faded, and the looked back at the taps with renewed curiosity. Jaskier bit back a groan. Left to his own devices, Geralt would spend hours examining such an enchantment. Jaskier steered the attendant after the room. As he left, he said, “Geralt, do take a bath. Now that we’re back among civilisation, you can’t go around stinking of dried blood and monster guts.”
Complete silence answered his direction. Jaskier snorted. If Geralt was too distracted to even manage his customary grunt, he must be entranced.
In the waiting room, he thanked the attendant for his time and left him with a last few requests: food, wine, and most importantly of all, a tailor. The food and wine came first, before Jaskier had even finished unpacking his meager possessions. Years on the road with Geralt had taught him to travel light. His bedroll and other camping implements he tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe. The rest of his clothes filled just half the wardrobe, for all Geralt complained he carried too many clothes. He shook his head at the sight. It was fortunate his payment for the winter included a generous stipend for anything he needed for his performances, clothes included.
Once unpacked, he picked up the trays of food and took himself into the bathroom. As soon as he opened the door, he felt the warmth and moisture in the air against his skin. He smiled. It was nice to pretend Geralt had listened to him, but in truth, Geralt never could resist a hot bath. Sunlight streamed in through the window, catching the swirling steam rising off the bath. Geralt lay reclined against one end of the bath. Only his neck and head were out of the water, the rest of him presumably stretched out in the large bath. His eyes were shut and his face relaxed in a rare moment of peace. Jaskier halted in the doorway. A smile worked its way onto his face. Jaskier could count the number of times he had seen Geralt so relaxed on one hand. He walked over to the edge of the bath, trying to make as little noise as possible.
“Jaskier, I know you’re there.”
“I knew that,” Jaskier said. It was a lie. It would be more accurate to say he ought to have known that. Sneaking up on a witcher was no mean feat. Geralt had likely known he was there from the minute he opened the door. Instead of upsetting him, the thought prompted a warm glow in his chest. Rather than focus on it, he plucked a grape off the platter of food and tossed it in his mouth. The sudden burst of sweetness distracted him, just as planned.
“So, the bath is no longer suspicious then?”
“You’re the one that said I needed to wash.”
“You’re not washing. You’re reclining.”
Jaskier was almost proud. He remembered all too well how hard it had been to get Geralt to accept even the smallest iota of comfort. Any lounging Geralt got up to now was undoubtedly a sign of Jaskier’s good influence. Pleased, Jaskier settled himself cross-legged on the ground beside the rim of the bath. It was only when he set the tray of food down that Geralt deigned to open his eyes.
“You’re welcome,”Jaskier said, and nudged the plate a little closer to Geralt. They shared their meal like that, Geralt in the bath, Jaskier chattering away happily beside him. Truth be told, these were the moments Jaskier cherished. As much as he relished finding new material for his songs, it was Geralt’s friendship he counted as invaluable. There was nothing glorious in the sight of Geralt’s smile, but Jaskier would choose it over any brilliant adventure.
Of course, there were times his irritation could be as valuable as his bliss, and Jaskier steeled himself for such a moment as he had an idea.
“Come to the ball tonight.”
Geralt looked at him for a moment, eyebrows slightly raised. When he turned his attention back to the food, he did not even bother to shake his head. Jaskier sighed loudly.
“At least give me something to work with. A grunt. An insult. Something.”
“No.”
“See, that’s something,” Jaskier brightened. “I know balls aren’t your usual thing, but think of this: there’ll be food. And wine, better wine than they’ll bring us alone here. Not to mention there’ll be women, beautiful women, women who have just heard all my wonderful stories about the daring and chivalry of witchers. It’s to be the debut of my newest song – the one about the hag we faced in that awful bog.”
“Hmm.”
“Fine, the hag you faced. But I was there. Anyway, you should come, enjoy yourself, revel in the hedonistic ways of humanity once more before disappearing up your mountain.”
Geralt looked at him, lips pressed together in a thoughtful expression. Jaskier’s heart began to beat a little more rapidly in anticipation. There was no guarantee Geralt would agree, but he was listening. That was more than he had hoped for. If only Jaskier had some final temptation to lay out in front of him, something Geralt couldn't say 'no' to. He settled for begging.
“Please?”
Geralt sighed. It was a long exhausted sound, mirroring the resignation in his face. “If I do this, you owe me a favour.”
“Done.”
“And I’m leaving as soon as your performance is finished.”
“Of course,” Jaskier agreed. He would have expected nothing less. A wide and gleeful grin spread across his face. “Do you have anything to wear? What am I saying, of course you don’t. Never mind. The tailor is coming soon, and one more outfit won’t break the bank.”
It was astonishing, Jaskier thought, how quickly Geralt could transition to a truly vicious scowl. The change was instantaneous. One second he looked tired but resigned to his fate, and the next he looked as if Jaskier had confessed to murdering Roach. Jaskier took a moment to rank the scowl compared to previous instances and decided he was on shaky ground. The last time he had seen Geralt like this, he had stormed out of the room shortly after.
“Nothing bright, nothing that will make you stand out,” Jaskier promised quickly. “And no fabric that does not meet your explicit approval.”
“You might as well put Roach in a dress and take her for a date.”
“While I’m sure she’d look absolutely darling with her mane braided, unfortunately she’s not invited,” Jaskier said without missing a beat. “Just me and my plus one. Come on, Geralt. You’ll attract more attention if you show up in your armour. This is to help you blend in.”
“Because it’s my clothing that makes me stand out, of course,” Geralt snorted derisively. Jaskier tilted his head, unable to stop a small frown from creeping over his face. He knew that tone too well.
“Well, I didn’t want to say it, but you are going to break a lot of hearts tonight. There’s nothing we can do to make you less attractive.”
Geralt rolled his eyes and avoided Jaskier’s gaze. Refusing to be discouraged, Jaskier showered him with compliments. He did not leave him in peace until they heard a knock at the door.
The tailor was a portly man with a thick mustache, followed by three assistants.
“I’m told you intend to buy a wardrobe for the season?”
“Eventually, dear man, eventually,” Jaskier said with a beaming smile. “Two outfits will be enough for today! One for myself, and one for my companion.”
“Of course. Let us see to you, first.”
After a brief discussion, several swatches of fabric were brought out for Jaskier’s perusal. He delighted in examining each one, eschewing more conservative choices for the most brightly coloured fabrics with the richest texture. At the same time, he discussed the design with the tailor, balancing local conventions with recent fashion. As eager as Jaskier was for an elaborate design, with the ball that night, they were greatly restricted by time. It would take hard work and a few clever tricks to meet his standards by the evening, but the tailor promised to do so.
“Now, your companion?”
“Ah,” Jaskier said. He opened the door to the bathroom and called Geralt’s name. Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he sank a little deeper into the water of the bath.
“Oh, no, you don’t get to skip this,” Jaskier said. Arming himself with a towel, undershirt and underpants, he marched to the edge of the bath. “You made a promise. You’re not allowed to back out now.”
The weary sigh Geralt let out was packed with exhaustion. A moment later, he heard the telltale sound of water splashing and draining away. Jaskier hid a grin. He practically bounced back to the tailor and, with a flourish, announced,
“May I present to you Geralt of Rivia?”
A stunned silence followed. One of the assistants dropped the box they were carrying and fled the room in terror. Another leered at Geralt with obvious desire. The third, Jaskier’s favourite, continued on with their work as if Geralt was no more interesting than any other client. They were the one who stepped forward to take Geralt’s measurements. Of the two, Jaskier thought, Geralt looked the most uncomfortable. His posture was stiff and rigid and his jaw was tightly clenched. When the assistant asked him to move, he did so slowly, broadcasting every one of his movements. He did not say a word until he was permitted to retreat and dress. Jaskier took it upon himself to fill the silence with suggestions. Half a dozen ideas had flowed before Geralt interrupted with a curt ‘no’. Jaskier grinned at him.
“You don’t even know what I’m saying. You might like chantilly lining”
“It’s that stupid lacy trim you’ve got all over your green jacket,”Geralt said. “It’s hideous.”
Jaskier’s jaw dropped. It was gratifying to know Geralt had listened to his three-day long rant about the difficulties of getting drowner brains out of lace, but the insult could not stand. He spluttered out several protests, none of them coherent. The corner of Geralt’s lips twitched. It was too small a motion for a stranger to notice, but Jaskier had seen it enough times to know he was being laughed at. Outraged, he grabbed the nearest fabric sample, balled it up, and threw it at Geralt’s head. He was not at all surprised when Geralt caught it with one hand. He was surprised a moment later when Geralt hummed and rubbed a thumb over the fabric.
“Do you have this material in black?” Geralt asked the tailor, and before Jaskier knew what was happening, the entire design process began without him. Geralt was on his best behaviour as he was lectured on the merits of different trends, softening his voice and expression to set the tailor at ease. He did not smile, but he did not quite frown, either.
Under ordinary circumstances, it was an expression Jaskier loathed. He much preferred Geralt’s natural, grumpier expression, the one that didn’t drain his energy and leave him even crankier than usual. Jaskier was the one who had chosen a life of performance. It seemed brutally unfair that Geralt was the one who needed a mask for every human interaction, no matter how mundane. This time, though – this time, Geralt is doing it for Jaskier. There was no other explanation, and the thought made Jaskier bounce on his feet. He chattered away happily as Geralt and the tailor discussed the intended outfit, not caring one jot that no one was listening to him.
After thirty minutes, he was interrupted by Geralt shoving a sketch under his nose. Jaskier blinked a few times before he took the parchment and examined it. It was not, all in all, a bad design. There was even a shock of blue peeking out around the neck and sleeves of the shirt. The tailor had ensured it met local standards and provided most of the detail, but Jaskier was delighted to realize he could see Geralt’s hand at work. Despite the rich fabrics and careful shape, the straight lines and simple cut were a dead giveaway. He felt a stab of pride in Geralt at the realization Geralt had his own sense of style that went beyond pure utilitarianism. A preference in something as frivolous as fashion was exactly the kind of thing Geralt would deny to the grave – and exactly the kind of thing Jaskier wanted to encourage. Nevertheless, he had some thoughts and suggested a few minor tweaks. To his surprise, Geralt accepted them without argument.
“Not even one complaint?” he asked, astounded.
Geralt shrugged, handing the design back to the tailor with a curt nod. “You’re the one that cares about this nonsense. If there was something wrong, you’d fix it.”
With a nod to Jaskier and the tailors, he left the room. Jaskier grinned, strumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.
“That was very nearly a compliment,” he told the tailor, thrilled. “Next thing you know, he’ll say I look nice.”
The tailor, having known Geralt for less than an hour, looked skeptical. Jaskier let out a theatrical sigh.
“Well, I can dream.”
The tailor packed up shortly after that, citing the fullness of his schedule for only taking designs for two outfits. Jaskier waved him off with a smile. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to plan out a wardrobe to see him through winter. For now, all he wanted to do was take advantage of the comforts at his fingertips. He had hoped to enjoy them with Geralt as a last goodbye before winter, but given the witcher had disappeared without a word, he was not going to wait for him.
Once the tailor had been seen off, Jaskier took himself through to the bath and filled it to the brim. After adding a dash of lavender oil, he sank in with a happy sigh. For a few seconds he simply sat there, letting the heat of the bath soak into his aching muscles. Oh, but this felt good. He could scarcely remember the last time he had felt so warm and comfortable. He stretched his legs out under the water and wriggled his toes, then arched his spine. Finally, he stretched his arms high above his head before lowering them and sinking a little deeper into the bath, not stopping until the water came up to his mouth. On impulse, he dipped a little lower and blew some bubbles into the water before straightening and pulling his head out of the water.
He spent nearly thirty minutes sitting there, soaking and letting the heat ease the aches and pains of the road. Afterwards, he hummed as he washed away the mud and sweat from the road. By the time he emerged, his skin was soft and smooth and smelling sweetly of jasmine. He dried his hair with one of the massive towels provided and dressed in his cleanest outfit.
Winter may have been on its way, but the afternoon sun still filtered in through the window. Jaskier seated himself in the seat by the window and practiced his lute. He started with a simple tune, all chords and a simple rhythm, just to get into the mood. Scales came next, before he slipped into improvising without even realizing it. A few of the fragments that came out seemed worth repeating, so he scrawled a few notes in his journal before returning to practice. The opening ceremony for his winter fellowship would be one of the most important performances of his career to date. He couldn’t afford to bring anything but the best.
Three hours later, Geralt returned. Jaskier did not bother to look up from his lute, entirely familiar with Geralt’s routine when he returned to an inn they were sharing. He did not need to look to know Geralt would be carrying supplies for his journey north. He did not want to look, either. Geralt’s agreement to stay the night had allowed him to pretend for one more night that he was not about to be separated from his friend. He was not about to willingly ruin that blissful illusion with reality. As for Geralt – he seemed content to let things be. He unpacked and repacked his bags, tended to his armour and weapons, and conducted any number of chores without saying a word.
Their clothes were delivered shortly before sunset. The chief tailor made the final alterations himself, looking pleased as Jaskier strutted this way and that and admired himself in the mirror provided. He was even happier once Geralt emerged, clad in black and grey with just a shock of blue. If only, he thought wistfully, he could convince Geralt to dress nicely more often. He looked splendid. Without his armour, his usual glower looked less like a threat and more like a warning and a promise. Here was a man who was more than capable of eviscerating his foes if he wished, but here, for the night, he had put that aside – provided no one offended him too greatly. It was the closest to ‘approachable’ Geralt was likely to get. Jaskier beamed.
“Geralt, what do you think?”
It may have been Jaskier’s imagination, but he liked to think Geralt’s answering grunt was more positive than usual. He beamed.
“That’s quite the endorsement,” he told the tailor, and gave him a tip on top of the price they’d agreed. “He hasn’t complained once about his outfit. You’re a miracle worker.”
“You’re too generous,” Geralt said, as soon as the tailor left. “He won’t share that tip with his employees, you know.”
“Oh, hush. You’re just mad that I talked you into silks again.”
Geralt grunted, as expected, so Jaskier did not pause for long enough for him to do anything else. He chatted happily as he examined his reflection in the mirror provided, fussing with his hair and applying just a hint of makeup. He did not usually bother with it, but the road had taken its toll on him. The sleepless nights in the mountain pass had left shadows under his eyes, and his lips were dry and chapped. When he caught Geralt watching him in bemusement, he huffed.
“Not all of us are ageless beauties, Geralt.”
“You’re not old. You’re vain,” Geralt said. Perhaps it was Jaskier’s imagination, but the words sounded more like an order than an ordinary insult. There was something there, Jaskier thought, something worth investigating. Anything that made Geralt that prickly was worth understanding. But it would no doubt take him all winter to puzzle it out, so he filed it away for the time being and pasted on a smile.
“That’s me, vain to the core, but don’t I have every reason to be?”
Rather than waiting for a derisive grunt (or worse, an outright rejection), Jaskier launched into a ten minute long boasting session. By that point, Geralt’s strangely foul mood had been replaced my something closer to normal – still cranky, but softened by amusement and, Jaskier liked to think, affection. There was no other explanation for why his boasting would make Geralt smile. He kept the boasting up as he fussed over his hair and applied just the faintest touch of make-up to his face. Once done, he looked at himself and Geralt in the mirror and beamed. Even if the ball itself was dull, Geralt's willing presence would make it a night to remember.