“Oh, come on! It’ll work, Geralt! I know it will,” Jaskier exclaims. “If the largest matchmaking festival on the continent cannot find you a partner, I don’t know what will!”
All it gets Jaskier is a non-committal grunt from Geralt. The witcher looks at the bustling market square and back at Jaskier, his face growing increasingly unimpressed.
“Just look at this!”
Jaskier stretches an arm towards the low-hanging washing lines that weave between statues and trees. Except there’s no laundry here, only small pieces of papers clipped onto those lines with personal information written on them—names, age, occupation, hobbies, and most importantly, what this person looks for in a match.
“Look at what?” Geralt crosses his arms, eyeing the hundreds of matchmaking notices flapping in the wind.
“All these people are looking for someone,” Jaskier says, excitedly, his fingers brushing a particular sheet. “One of them has to be the right person for you if you would just stop brooding and look!”
The scowl on Geralt’s face resembles the one he often wears when Jaskier says something stupid, which is completely uncalled for because Jaskier is having the best idea ever.
“Jaskier,” he sighs. “These are desperate people trying to marry themselves off. Or worse, desperate parents trying to marry off their poor children.”
The crowd is full of people of all ages, throwing furtive looks at one another and trying to draw attention to their note. A few washing lines down, two women start chatting right on the spot—they both put needlework on the hobbies section.
Jaskier watches them for a second, their smiles shy but happy.
It’s the reason why he came to Toussaint just in time for the festival, to find Geralt a partner so he won’t be lonely in retirement. Now that Geralt has settled into his vineyard by himself, Jaskier worries.
