Probably for the best, at least Geralt could keep Jaskier warm, what with all the drafts in the vacant witchers' rooms he might have been given to pick from.

Eskel pauses, in the middle of tucking a couple of sad winter apples into his pockets. He squints at his brother-in-arms in the dark. The invitation to sit and drink fills him with an anxiety he doesn't usually associate with Geralt of all people. He's trying to think of a way to refuse when Geralt's lips twitch and he speaks again.

The scarred witchers face flushes hot everywhere except the line of twisted flesh up the side of his cheek.

"You gonna give me a lecture about it?" He asks, trying to keep his tone teasing as he gets a cup and makes his way over to the table, self-conscious of the stiff, rocking gait he's been left with. He'll he glad to be free of this brace, if it means he has to have a medic somewhere below the Gwenllech re-break the bone and set it straight.

He sits across from Geralt, wincing as he maneuvers the leg. Well, he'll have to stay here awhile, whatever Geralt has in store for him. No hasty exists, at the moment.

"For the record, he started it. I certainly didn't expect my lunch to come with anything extra."