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“Where are the stockings?”
Neither Eskel nor Lambert looks up from their game of cards to respond to Jaskier. He’s been chattering to himself for the past several hours while flitting about the keep, hanging furs, draping fabric and little glass ornaments that he and Geralt made from sands taken from the riverbanks of Toussaint then lugged up the mountain. Decorating.
He’s also coerced Geralt into bringing an entire pine tree inside, which has been strung up with beads, shiny silver silk and little blue baubles. All things hauled up the mountain for this year, as last year had been Jaskier’s first winter in Kaer Morhen and he had been entirely appalled that the Witchers did not celebrate Yule.
So, Jaskier did as Jaskier does and nagged them into compliance.
The halls were to be decorated.
They were to bake very specific cookies and breads.
They were to cook a meal of roast bird and vegetables.
They were to bring a minimum of one gift for every other person to be in attendance.
They were to bring a minimum of one festive decoration to add to the halls.
They were to eat dinner together, open gifts, then share a dance.
It was all rather tiresome, if you asked Lambert.
“Fucker,” he hisses as Eskel plays a scorch card, effectively decimating his entire front-row.
“Seriously,” Jaskier pipes up again, arms crossed and musing at the hearth, “Where are the stockings?”
“If you shut your mouth you can have mine,” Lambert sneers, tossing out a spy, just to steal one of Eskel’s better cards in the hope of a comeback in the final round.
“Oh,” Jaskier perks up, sauntering over, “Have you got some?”
“Not other than the ones he’s wearing,” Eskel mutters, squinting at the cards laid out between them, “Skip.”
A fair move, he is nearly twelve points ahead this round. Lambert has the privilege of getting to draw an additional card as the round loser, so he decides to take the loss. They’re tied in rounds now, round three will determine the winner.
“I don’t mean socks like the kind you wear, you uncultured brutes,” Jaskier huffs, hands settling in fists on his hips. Lambert nearly groans at the universal signal of incoming bard rant. Eskel plays a 2 point infantry card - a bluff. Lambert knows how his brothers play, and Eskel always downplays the strength of his final hand.
“You hang stockings, knitted, usually. You know, something stretchy but that you can customize. There are some patterns that are very popular in Redania,” Lambert rolls his eyes and sets down a 6 point ballista, “Anyways, you hang them on the mantle by the fire-”
“Wool socks,” Lambert repeats, “By the fire. Yeah, real smart.”
“Not gonna complain if some rich prick burns down their house,” Eskel peers down at the board, plays a 4 point archer. He’s only got three cards left now, Lambert 4.
“You put them high enough that they don’t catch fire,” Jaskier argues, “And then on Yule, that’s where the presents go. You put them in the stocking of the person, then stockings go under the tree to be opened in the morning! Honestly you act like you’ve never celebrated Yule before.”
“We haven’t,” Eskel reminds him, nose scrunching in displeasure as Lambert plays a rain card.
“Well, not here, but surely before you were dragged off into the mountains to tortures unparalleled.”
“Oh yeah,” Lambert agrees with no small amount of sarcasm, “Two things dear old dad loved; beating the shit out of his son, and Yule.”
“Fine, so not Lambert, but Eskel?”
Eskel shrugs, uses his deck captain to clear weather effects, “Grew up in the mountains. We don’t do Yule, it’s a human thing.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Oh for the love of- for the last time, Witchers are still human-”
“Not if they didn’t start as humans,” Geralt interrupts, sauntering into the room in naught but a towel, white hair dripping onto the stone floors. Jaskier makes a scandalized sound.
“Did you take a bath without me?”
“You were taking too long with your decorations.”
“Geralt!”
Geralt hums, uncaring, and peers at the table Lambert and Eskel are playing on just as Lambert lays another rain card.
“Oh fuck off, you are such a dick,” Eskel huffs, tossing another 4 point archer on the board. It doesn’t matter with the rain, Lambert’s already won.
“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, “Tell them we need stockings!”
“Think you’ve tormented them enough for one night.”
Jaskier gasps his offense, “How dare you,” he slaps at Geralt's arm, “I, sir, am a delight! I do not torment! I enamour! I charm! I enchant!” He cries, indignant. “A judgemental curr, you are! A pox on your house, I say! A pox!”