abraxaslogs | the fairy tales and little lies can't drown out all the sound [closed]

I know! [Jaskier lifts a hand, biting at his cuticle, muffling his voice a moment.] It's blooding annoying, isn't it?

[Moglad, however, is still a chatterhouse. About Bleobheris, and about Carrot, and about the wine that Mogworth is currently gulping, silently, straight from the bottle. Moglad seemingly disappears for a moment, even, and comes out with his tiny lute again, putting it to the side for later.

It's something he has not seen in some time. Since Moglad picked up the sword against the -- the shadows that peered in on him from the corners of that tavern.

Which means the moogle feels safe. Comfortable enough to not have his sword at hand... even after that damn morbol almost rotted Bleobheris out.]

Suppose you'll be listening to more songs while you're whittling. You'd better get used to it.

Preferable, actually. How do we keep him over the other?

[ A silent moogle? Now that's a novelty he can tolerate. He isn't serious about exiling Moglad. Jaskier would be far too upset. Besides, he didn't waste all that time teaching the creature how to wield its miniature sword only to abandon it.

Even so, this is all. Unusual. To say the least. Then again, when isn't the Horizon stirring up shit?

Only when Moglad produces his lute does Geralt realize he is no longer carrying his blade. Hm. Hanging up his sword finally for music again?

He looks over at Jaskier, scrutinizing. He knows the bard underwent the same memories as he did. He just can't tell what might've brought this change onto his domain. It isn't unwelcome. Unexpected, that's all. ]

[Jaskier hits Geralt in the chest immediately with the back of his hand.] Shut it.

[At least Moglad doesn't seem to have heard. Mogworth... may have, but he makes no reaction, because he's draining the wine again. At a frightening rate, actually. It is only when Jaskier watches them again he realizes Moglad has brought his -- friend -- a second bottle, as the first has already been drained completely.

He may be hanging up his sword, but Moglad is still wearing the medallion; in fact, Jaskier has never seen him take it off. Mogworth, to his surprise, does not have one... but all those little scars. And there is a sword, but it's leaning against the seat Mogworth has taken.

He's beginning to sense what Moglad meant when he said the other almost killed Carrot.

He's running a bloody zoo now, isn't he? Certifiably?

Jaskier finally notices Geralt staring at him. He looks back, brows raising.] W - what? I told you, this was not intentional.

[ The sound he makes in return is faintly amused. Is this baffling? A touch. It's not a concerning mystery, though. Moglad seems pleased with his new friend, and the other moogle is hardly a troublemaker. In fact, it's done nothing except focus intently on the card game.

Worse things to have spawned.

He walks away from the two creatures. They were a unique diversion, but he came here to see Jaskier, not them. They stroll along the river. Sunlight streams through the thick leaves. Memories of the Continent are fresher than they've been in some time, and he misses the forest and the lush grass more than ever. The cool springtime air. Chirping birds that bring Brokilon to mind.

Eventually, they reach the fruit trees sprouting along the clearing. He plucks a peach hanging low on a branch. It's evident he has something on his mind. ]

I know you spoke to Julie. [ There's no accusation, only a statement. ]

[Ugh. Jaskier rolls his eyes and pretends he is not already extremely fond of the rough-looking Moogle, with puffs of fur sticking up at the top of his head and his strange, calming golden pom.

Jaskier gives him a final glance as they walk away. He sees Mogworth sneak a card underneath his rump, and with Moglad throwing his arms into the air with a cheer, apparently lets the other moogle win.

Hmm.

Jaskier doesn't miss a step, moving beside Geralt to the woods. Clearly Geralt isn't here only to whittle if they're going away from Bleobheris. (As the canopy closes in above them, it is too much like Brokilon. Only the flash of his jewelwisps moving between the trees reminds him how much this place is his, not the dryads'.

Ah. There it is.] I did. [He looks over. Of course Geralt would know, because Jaskier was not attempting to hide it, and he didn't think Julie would, either.] I thought she should have a... warning, of sorts. A chance to know. And -- [He kicks a rock, watching it fly perfectly between two tree trunks.] I wanted to talk about it with someone.

[ She wasn't, no. Geralt is neither interested in such things being kept from him nor is it necessary. He isn't asking because it bothers him. He's asking because he senses Jaskier bears a weight he will not admit. At least not to Geralt.

In a way, he can understand. When he was...injured, when Ciri was taken, his mind was on no one but her. Jaskier would not have wanted to interfere with that singular goal.

They're safe now. And he worries. A little. About the toll all of this might've had his friend. ]

Did it help?

[ What they spoke of, it isn't important. Julie will tell him if he asks, and he has no desire to hide anything from her. It's only a question of not wanting to overburden her. ]

[Sunlight filters perfectly through the leaves above them, making a sort of trail of sunlight that he can bask in. Where it touches his skin, it truly does feel warm; even if Cadens is descending towards much cooler nights, the temperature here always remains like a glorious spring. It always feels so bloody real.

He looks up through the leaves to the very blue sky, peppered with fluffed, white clouds. Some of them look to be mysteriously shaped like horses, racing across the sky.]

Yes. [He looks back down, to Geralt.] Her and I... we have been through very similar things. She understood the things I could not put into words.

[ A minute of silence passes. His thumb runs over the peach's fuzzy skin. So that was why Jaskier spoke to her. ]

I don't wish to put either of you through that pain.

[ And yet, they both know it may happen once more. The world does not give a shit about what any of them want. He's told himself every day since that night that Ciri is safe, and every day he struggles to really believe it. To find it in himself to rest. He never wants to be too late again. To ask whether he could have done more, sooner.

Destiny did not weave for him a quiet life.

As they walk deeper into the trees, he stops and settles on a stump. Perhaps it's a subconscious effect—but the twittering birds and thick forest floor take on a shape that's more Brokilon than Bleobheris. ]

Before you went to find me— [ He pauses, searching for a gentle way to put it. That night on Thanedd is the only part Jaskier has been light on the details about, and though he's tried not to pry, something tells him it's important to Jaskier. ] Will you tell me what happened?

Edited 2023-10-02 07:06 (UTC)

[Jaskier drops his gaze back down, leveling it at Geralt. Just past his shoulder he can see Radu and Dănești moving towards them, throwing their manes as they eye the peach in Geralt's hand. While blood has always been their food of choice, Jaskier's influence on them as they spent time in his domain may have given them other hungers. And the horses know Geralt well, well enough to attempt to form a plan to steal food right from him.]

I know, Geralt. I know.

[The horses follow as they continue, and Jaskier throws a couple of peaches to the pair. Their hooves on the road and the whip of their tails is oddly more familiar than ever before... he'd finally had his own horse, and he's already lost her. Poor girl. He was going to give her a fantastic name, in the midst of their wild race towards Ciri.

Jaskier takes a few steps past him, watching as the domain twists itself: taller trees, thicker green, even the loam becoming lush and overgrown. He doesn't mind. The druids would have loved Brokilon. Though his horses give complaining little snorts, they cease when Jaskier offers his fingers for Radu to nibble.

Jaskier starts.] What makes you think anything happened?

[The tone of his voice makes it clearer than even the expression on his face that something absolutely happened.] You know, besides hearing Aretuza had fallen, and the Tower of Gulls had exploded, and all the bloody elves that I... that I once knew were dead.

[ They needn't resort to stealing. Geralt watches them approach where he sits, nudging his shoulder, and he sighs as he splits the peach in half. One for each. Radu gobbles it right from his palm.

That Jaskier evades the question is no surprise. Geralt's glance over is knowing. He hums. ]

Besides that.

[ Jaskier had tried with the elves. They sealed their doom when they chose to attack Ciri, to side with Nilfgaard and wage more war. Most of the elves only sought to live quietly, but the Scoia'tael had aims which went much further.

He's glad at least the others found refuge in Brokilon.

But he knows it isn't only the death and destruction which weighs on Jaskier. After their long years together, he can tell. It's more. Something deeply personal. ]

Ciri going missing? [He helpfully adds, because one could never forget that. Even though no one has ever pointed out it was under his eyes. Not that... well, to be honest, that he could have stopped Ciri on his own. Or been fast enough to catch her. And what would he have done if he had?

His horses are useless, doing nothing to help distract Geralt beyond nosing into his hands as they eat the peaches. They've never dared to bite Geralt because they know better, but he can see Radu especially nosing a bit, smelling his skin, until she backs off with a snort. Witcher blood still is not very attractive, apparently.

Jaskier sighs, leaning against a tree. His head falls back, hitting the bark. It isn't that he's hiding it. In the grand machinations of the Continent, it hardly matters. And that's why he tries to push it aside. Because it does not mean much. A man he's never met. And feelings that --

Well. Shouldn't exist.] Dijikstra and Philippa were not the only ones trying to convince me to bring Ciri to Redania. [He sighs, and looks back at Geralt.] There was a third. Radovid. Prince of Redania.

[His voice sighs over the name, and it disgusts him. He is not some willowy boy in his first bloom of love. He doesn't -- he is not like this.] He was learning how to play the game. Better than I first anticipated.

[ Geralt can't quite hide the wince. It remains a painful memory, even knowing he found her again.

It wasn't Jaskier's fault. Ciri went to find him and Yen when she sensed danger, just as he taught her. They had not left her under Jaskier's protection. They'd left her in his company so she wouldn't feel alone. Were it not for everything going to shit, Yennefer's wards would've been plenty to keep Ciri safe that night.

No. The only person responsible for Ciri's disappearance is him. He's the one who told her to run. He's the one who promised they would find each other. He's the one who failed to stop Vilgefortz.

But this isn't about him right now. He studies Jaskier, a slow realization crossing his face. ]

Guests were speculating about the prince's absence.

[ He needn't say it out loud for Jaskier to understand that he's put the pieces together. He'd learned from Dijkstra that Redania's men were sent to overthrow the Brotherhood and claim Ciri for their kingdom. Radovid hadn't been absent at all, had he? He was there on Thanedd. Just not at the ball. Geralt hadn't thought much of it at the time; even the common folk know of the prince's reputation. But in hindsight, the picture is clear. There can only be one reason why neither Dijkstra nor Philippa Eilhart seemed concerned over his disappearance despite the whispers. Only one reason they cared to bring him in the first place rather than grounding him at the palace.

And Jaskier—mm. He knows that look. (It's not unlike the look Jaskier wore when Geralt returned to him in Gors Velen. Hurt and disappointed and trying not to be.) He was learning how to play the game.

One of the horses nips at his hair. Geralt gently nudges her aside. ]

Dijkstra and Philippa have been manipulating crown princes like Radovid for years. [ Decades, in Philippa's case. ] I'm sorry it came to that.

[ If Radovid and Jaskier were speaking, if the prince had somehow managed to convince Jaskier that Ciri going to Redania could be possible, then Jaskier must've trusted him. Betrayal stings, no matter who or why. ]

Edited 2023-10-04 20:19 (UTC)

That isn't -- [He raises his hands, then drops them at once. Then raises one once more, gesturing in a circle.] I mean, it is, and it isn't. He's sharp. He knew he was only a tool. He was never not aware.

[Is he defending him, now? A man he's never met? (But he has. He can remember every touch. Even if those were very much part of the manipulation, they... there was a truth to them.

He swears there was a truth to them.)

Jaskier steps past Geralt, fussing with his cuticles, arms pulled in front of him, as a few bee jewelwisps fly around him, chasing each other. One lands on his shoulder to rest its wings. Somewhere, he knows Moglad has pulled out his lute, and begun singing. He doesn't know how. He just feels it. I am enough. With you, I am enough...]

He wasn't at the party because he was with me.

[The words weigh heavy. It isn't sadness, entirely. It is pain through clenched teeth. The splash of embarrassment, of being wrong. Of being made a fool.]

And he was using me to get to Ciri, as I had suspected. [A little sarcastic laugh comes out.] About the first time I'd ever wanted to be wrong.

Edited 2023-10-06 05:46 (UTC)

[ He was with—

Oh. Geralt blinks. It doesn't surprise him, exactly. More...the confirmation he hadn't realized he was looking for.

Leaning forward, he rests his arms on his knees. ] I wanted to be wrong, too. About Yen.

[ He wasn't. And it hurt. It hurt for a long time. It always will, he thinks. Even healed, a scar can still sting. But Jaskier was right, and so was Dean. Holding onto that anger—it will do nothing except fester. He'd known that, too. It was just...hard. To let go the way he knew he should.

So he gets it. How Jaskier might feel about Radovid. To wish you'd guarded your heart a little better. To realize you wouldn't be here if you had. ]

It's not a fault to want to trust, Jaskier.

[Jaskier gestures with his hands out. With me has very obvious connotations that he is not denying. Geralt knows him. What he doesn't know is, even now, some part of it feels different. Vespula's taunting of his crush continues to haunt him, as if she actually had a point.

Which she did not. Clearly. He is instead haunted by how wrong she was.

Jaskier looks at his fingernails.] Yeah, well. [You and Yen are completely different, he wants to say. Destined lovers and all of that. There is not a chance in hell (he knows the term now, thank you) that Destiny intended him to be with a prince. A Redanian one. He's not exactly a fan of Vizimir's, ah... policies.]

Lucky for him I couldn't kill him if I wanted to. [Which he does not. It feels like it would be akin to kicking a pup.] I never said it was a fault. I have no faults, including trust. It's more -- [Now he looks up.] I don't know. [He pauses again.] I never wanted to fail Ciri, either.

[ Jaskier doesn't say it, but he can hear it. Destiny. In some ways, it's true. Destiny brought them together, but he knows nothing but the three of them choose to stay together. Destiny did not prevent Yennefer from making her choices, and it didn't erase the distance he placed between them for months.

It doesn't entirely erase the distance now, either. But the weight has lessened. ]

You didn't. [ The answer comes without hesitation, a little sharp. He has no wish for Jaskier to blame himself for what happened. ] I was—

[ He cuts himself short. Jaskier doesn't need to hear it. Geralt is not seeking reassurance; he knows where his fault lies. He isn't dwelling on it. What he needs to do from hereon is more apparent than ever, and he supposes he has that ordeal to thank for that clarity. A lesson.

He releases a breath. ] It's as you said. Ciri is safe here. I intend to keep it that way.

No. [He finally sits next to Geralt, now that it's out, sliding his boots out in front of him as the horses move past, nipping and chasing each other now their sneaked snacks have been eaten.] You didn't, either.

[Before Geralt can indulge the guilt too much. If neither of them are to blame, then... that's good. That's good enough for him.

How long can they truly soak in guilt? He'd rather not. It's boring and depressing and he -- he would like to believe better of both of them. Ciri ended up safe, no matter where she went. Even if she won't speak of it. (A thing that scares him, if he's being honest.)

Jaskier throws an arm around Geralt's shoulder. They're both being surly fools over things they cannot change. Acceptance is for the best here.] Oh, so you're saying I'm right again? My, I'm really on a roll now.

[He reaches for the humour. Geralt understands him, but he's not sure he really does entirely. Mostly because Jaskier doesn't understand it himself. Perhaps he should... push himself here. It may help.]

The thing is... I think I would've liked a resolution. And I've never truly met him. I mean, the me I am now. I suppose. [He turns to Geralt.] He was there at Thanedd, you know. He'd come looking for his guards, and he walked into a slaughter. I don't think he'd ever seen anything like it.

[ He did. He did, but it's a failure he's determined not to repeat. But he senses what Jaskier is doing, so his only reply is a grunt. ]

Don't get ahead of yourself.

[ He glances over through a curtain of hair. No. They are not the same as they were in those memories. And those memories have not left them the same in exchange. As much as he wishes he could tell Jaskier he'll find his answers one day, that's not how the world works.

It occurs to him Jaskier must've left for Brokilon shortly after stumbling over the prince. For the dying Witcher. That he made a choice in that moment.

Geralt's hand finds Jaskier's leg, gently squeezing his knee.

The Continent had never been peaceful, but this is so much more. For the first time, he is intimately involved in ways he never wanted to be. He can no longer through villages turned to ash and bodies hanged under bridges, ignoring how death clings to him like the mud staining his boots.

He sees this world shifting towards the same violent tempest. Maybe here, they won't be too late. ]

You've already said it.

[And that makes him feel a modicum better. Even if Geralt admitting it twice is about twice as worrying as him admitting it once.

It's... more than a shame, but he isn't sure what to call it. He can only trust that Radovid believed him and did, indeed, take his whole Sandpiper route back to Redania, by the time Jaskier was in Brokilon. He has no other clue where he is. Where he left the prince. If he even --

Well, he better have. His guards had not survived, though Dijkstra and Phillipa had. Not that Jaskier hardly had beliefs either would be unable to snake their way out of it.

No. What had mattered in that moment was Yennefer, Ciri, and Geralt. He'd made his choice, and he would not have made it different.

Jaskier gives him a smile at the touch. Luckily, he's never needed Geralt to say anything. It is better he's said it, even if it some time since the memories came. It was... easier now. Here. (After seeing what his consciousness was doing with Mogworth.)

Speaking of.] We should head back. [He's a little tired of seeing Brokilon, to be honest.] Surely you came for more than to listen to my complaints.

[ Right. They should.

Patting the horses, Geralt begins the trek back. Leaving Brokilon behind. He wonders if he ever returned after that. Once he found Ciri, happened? Was Yennefer with him? Jaskier? Did they settle back into the family he'd always wanted?

He knows he shouldn't let his mind stay mired in the past. That there is much more he hasn't lost. And it—

He glances up. A high-pitched Kupo! rings out from between the trees. Is that...?

Where in the hell did the other moogle even get a sword? It must've spawned with it—and it's apparently determined to slice Jaskier's miniature morbol into pieces.

Geralt peers at the spectacle. (What the fuck.) ]

Edited 2023-10-16 07:49 (UTC)

[Commotion in Bleobheris is a rare occurrence, and thus a startling one. Jaskier would recognize Moglad anywhere, but his kupo! is a startled one. Jaskier runs ahead only to find Mogworth, both feet planted firmly on the ground, holding a single sword in front of him as he stands before Moglad, still holding his lute, his golden pom suddenly turned black.

Oh, for fuck's sake --

He will say, Mogworth is fast. The moogle darts forward, ducking under the swipe of a tentacle, to slice one of the morbol's arms off in one swipe.]

Mogworth! Leave Yjönnstifer alone, you cretin! What are you doing?!

[The morbol cries out with -- well, it's a horrifying noise, actually, somewhere between a squelch and a belch -- and Jaskier scoops him up, lost arm and all, reattaching it with a wet squish.] We don't go around killing our friends here!

[Moglad adds I told him not to! I was just startled, kupo!, which Jaskier's a little proud of -- he's absolutely a little narc -- but Mogworth is apparently unbothered by either of them. He wipes his eyes with a paw, and his pom returns to gold. It got too close, is his explanation, but Jaskier suspects it's not Mogworth that the morbol got too close to, considering Moglad currently, er. Stinks.

Jaskier sighs.] This place has turned into a mess. One might say it's even too crowded.

Edited 2023-10-16 19:36 (UTC)

[ Jönnsti...?

The scene that unfolds before him is an absurdist comedy of immeasurable proportions: the two fluffy bear-creatures, waving sword and lute; Jaskier, rescuing his beloved (?) miniature monster and reattaching its severed limb. For once, Geralt is not silent because he hasn't anything he cares to say. He's just. Baffled.

And increasingly uncomfortable by Mogworth's entire...everything. His black-turned-gold antenna. Pursuing a monster for attacking his. Moogle friend. Its inexplicable silence when, as far as he's told, these creatures do not stop chattering.

After a long moment, Geralt claps Jaskier on the shoulder, the universal signal for Good luck, but I'm leaving now. ] I'm sure you'll be fine.

[ And he's gone. ]

Well, of course I'll be fine, it's just --

[He turns only to see Geralt literally phasing out of existence, and looking, to Jaskier's eyes, quite pleased about it, as if the very fact he can leave a conversation whenever he wishes to makes the Horizon particularly pleasant.

Or Jaskier may be projecting.]

Geralt! Don't you dare! [And... he's already gone.] You stupid arse!

[He swears he can hear Mogworth laugh deep under his breath. Just once.]

the fairy tales and little lies can't drown out all the sound [closed]

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