And Howl Your Pain unto the Moon

Part 1 - The Curse

It took Jaskier about two months of being on his own again to run into trouble. More accurately into Valdo Marx.

He truly entered a downward spiral after The MountainTM. First, he waited for Geralt. He waited on the top for hours until the dark fell, and then spent a nervous and terribly cold night all alone. When morning came and the witcher still didn't show up, the bard swallowed down his nervosity and slid down the slippery slope all the way to the camp where they left their horses hoping to find Roach waiting there. But no. His heart fell through his chest, only to jump back up and stuff his throat, making tears sting in his eyes.

He was alone.

He was alone. Okay. That happens. He was used to parting from Geralt and traveling on his own more often than not. It was nothing new, more like a return to the way things were before. Before... Before, when he was lonely and miserable, sleeping under threadbare blankets and eating stale bread. Fuck.

That's how it started. He walked away from Caingorn, the pace quick, almost running, but still lingered in taverns and villages as if the door should open and do a repeat of Posada twenty years ago. Lingering in pubs also proved like an effective way to drink his sorrows away and before he could notice, he was fully immersed in the heartbroken bard persona. Burn Fucker Burn echoing across taverns together with Her Sweet Kiss and I Once Knew a Man, But You Are Not Him to great success with his female audience. He also finished The Golden One and On the Spear's Edge when he met with Zoltan's group again at the borders, but his heart wasn't really in it. Still, the songs were great, and he didn't have trouble making money for his steadily worsening spending habits. When you get shitfaced over heartbreak, at least you should do it with good-quality liquor.

He was just doing exactly that in a lovely tavern in Mirt, when the door opened, and in pranced his greatest pain in the ass, calling himself his rival, Valdo Marx. The man was a bit older than Jaskier, bits of silver already painting his temples, but his eyes were still just as dark and his smirk just as annoying as when he stole Jaskier's work and made his last two years at the University hell, fighting against plagiarism that was so hard to prove. He could see that the times hadn't been great for the other bard though, his clothes a bit duller than any bard would wish for, coin purse light. But still, he ordered a few shots of vodka, threw them back, and stumbled to the better bard's table.

"Where's your monster dildo? Did you leave it in the woods where it didn't have to listen to your miserable croaking, Jaskier the Great?"

Jaskier's mood was already worse than bad, his heart torn and hurting, but now the floodgates opened and soon vitriol poured out of his mouth. Valdo was the one starting the whole thing, just as it was him throwing the first punch, but soon they were both thrown out of the tavern, ending up in the mud with their fancy clothes torn and faces drawn. Jaskier fumed, kicking the other bard's leg once more, before he collected his hat, dusted off the worst of his clothes, and left, still grumbling drunken insults quietly, hoping to sleep the horrible evening off.

Valdo? That fucker's eyes glinted with hate as he slowly got up on trembling legs, looking for a torn-off button from his doublet. His life and career were in shit, and now his clothes were too. He was always one to hold a grudge though, and so he resolved himself to finally squash the annoyingly successful bug under his feet. And maybe, after the overrated twat disappeared from the bardic scene, the fortune would finally look his way.

...

For some reason, that Jaskier would prefer stayed unexplained, he soon found himself crossing the border into Kaedwen. After all, Olviny was a nice town. One he hadn't been in in a few years, and he could always do with their honeycakes. And mead.

He traveled much slower now, even as the winter came close. Usually, they would be only stopping for the biggest contracts this time of year, Geralt rushing to Kaer Morhen before the pass closes with snow, but this year Jaskier decided not to rush. He stopped in even the smallest of settlements, sometimes for multiple days, collecting stories of ordinary people and their ordinary lives, something that he now found a bit strange, after so many years on the path.

He didn't plan on returning to Oxenfurt this year. He didn't want to talk about Geralt with people who knew him, and with all of his acquaintances at the University, he knew he couldn't really avoid the topic. Especially with the way his latest songs were doing. Already people were asking for them, even though the melodies were young.

The Mossy Boulder Tavern in Olviny was no different. He played three sets, drinking plenty of mead, eating the delicious stew, and singing anything the folk wanted with great success before he again felt a string of melancholy tugging at his heart and decided to retire, gently letting down the hopeful maid from behind the bar. He went upstairs into his room where he put his lute away, untied his laces, and promptly fell into the soft bed. As he lay there, face smashed into the pillow, he couldn't help but miss the brooding presence at the other side of the room.

"Fuck you, Geralt," he whispered, before sobbing a few times and falling asleep with his pillow wet.

...

There was darkness, deep, almost physical, heavy darkness, crawling across him, making his limbs heavy. He couldn't breathe. And suddenly, in the darkness, there was a light. More specifically two lights. Eyes. Shining deep blood-red, unblinkingly staring into his soul.

"Lose your fingers, lose your voice,
leave your lute without a choice,
let them chase you, let them hate you,
let them hunt you, let them fear you.

Locked into a monster's body
locked into a monster's mind
you will eat your meat raw, bloody
you will forget who's your kind.

Without love and without a pack
wandering lone wolf as such
you can only turn fully back
with a loving human touch."

The eyes looking at him shone brightly, almost blinding him, before a terrible pain descended upon him as his bones broke and rebroke, his body rebuilding anew into a different shape, fur growing in where soft skin was before.

...

Everything was so loud when he woke. The pain in his body was immense and there was blood on the sheets of the bed. When he jumped down, he whimpered at the unexpected shift of balance, scrambling to gather his paws under him. He couldn't talk. The lute in the corner taunted him, but somehow, he knew he couldn't take her. He looked at the door, before jumping up and opening it. He ran.

Of course, they noticed him. Of course, they screamed. Of course. He didn't know or remember much, only vague thoughts and a mash of feelings scrambling together to give him a tiny bit of direction. Namely away from the group of humans pointing strange wooden things at him. He had this vague idea that if they came too close, he would be hurt, so he ran.

And he ran far. When he finally stopped, his body tired, stomach empty, and mouth dry, he was glad to drink from a muddy stream before laying down into the wet grass, whimpering, before falling into an uneasy sleep, mind hunted by images of glowing red eyes.

There wasn't much he remembered from this time when he later came to. Only the occasional crack of thin animal bones between his jaws, or the smell of forest ground, or the sharp, piercing pain of an arrow turning dull over time. The only thing that stayed was his instincts, now stronger than ever before. And those led him northeast, right up where Gwenllech was just a small stream finding its way down from the tops of the Blue Mountains.

There was something calling to him, up in the cold snow. Something he could vaguely smell now as he made his way through the frozen wilderness, following day-old footsteps. Something he didn't find with the wild growling wolves in the forests down south. Something like pack.