[It is probably for the best he knows nothing of Yennefer teaching Ciri anything -- or attempting to. He'd have plenty to say about it, and he is attempting to stay pleasant with Ciri (which is not, honestly, as easy as he'd thought it would be.)
He gives her an amused snort, but does as she asks. Quiet is the least he can grant if she must concentrate. At the least, he expects nothing to happen. He will have to find some way to describe the pull he does to find the magic, though it really simply... came to him. With enough thought, situating it into an action he could understand. Nothing is not the worst. It is the first step to something.
It feels as if the earth itself goes still, holding its breath. Jaskier can feel something in the air. Chaos, or magic. It must be one of them, surely. And the wound will disappear --
All at once, every hair on his body raises to full attention. Ciri? he is about to ask, the word coming to his tongue before his mouth can open. There is a moment where light reflects off the bare skin of his arm, painting it green. In the desert, under the shining sun, it is an unnatural color.
It's the last thing he recalls.
The magic explodes between them with a great, terrible crack, and Jaskier shouts as his body launches backwards, slamming into the sand so hard that a great splash of it rises behind him. It would not be the worst to be thrown into sand. It is also not, he would think, had he the mind, that the sharp, white-hot snapping of pain up to his head is the worst -- though it is acute and overwhelming, as he curls over his arm to find it wet with red where it should be dry skin. He has had worse. It's that when he opens his eyes, his face dusted with sand, that the shape of it is not correct; skin has torn where it was meant to heal, and he swears he can see bone and fat underneath where the blast has ripped open what was a pinprick wound to something like a slit purse.
Nausea makes his throat heavy. And no, it would not be the worst for him to be hurt, or for Ciri to be panicked. It's that all at once, it's too much -- and it slips through, his panic. That he may bleed out here in the desert with Ciri watching him.
Whether it's called by the expansion of pure, unshifted magic in the air or the spiking of Jaskier's heart, green blooms around him. Thick, thorned vines rip themselves through the sand, tossing it out of their way as they expand with unnatural speed. And finding their threat, they spring towards Ciri like sharp, tangling hands, forming a somewhat haphazard barrier between them.]
Ciri! [It's all he manages before he doubles over with a cry, feeling as if the veins of his arm themselves are expanding, heating, as if they might explode, and he cannot concentrate enough to pull on this unnatural magic the Horizon gifted him before it can attempt to constrict around her, to choke her.]
no subject
He gives her an amused snort, but does as she asks. Quiet is the least he can grant if she must concentrate. At the least, he expects nothing to happen. He will have to find some way to describe the pull he does to find the magic, though it really simply... came to him. With enough thought, situating it into an action he could understand. Nothing is not the worst. It is the first step to something.
It feels as if the earth itself goes still, holding its breath. Jaskier can feel something in the air. Chaos, or magic. It must be one of them, surely. And the wound will disappear --
All at once, every hair on his body raises to full attention. Ciri? he is about to ask, the word coming to his tongue before his mouth can open. There is a moment where light reflects off the bare skin of his arm, painting it green. In the desert, under the shining sun, it is an unnatural color.
It's the last thing he recalls.
The magic explodes between them with a great, terrible crack, and Jaskier shouts as his body launches backwards, slamming into the sand so hard that a great splash of it rises behind him. It would not be the worst to be thrown into sand. It is also not, he would think, had he the mind, that the sharp, white-hot snapping of pain up to his head is the worst -- though it is acute and overwhelming, as he curls over his arm to find it wet with red where it should be dry skin. He has had worse. It's that when he opens his eyes, his face dusted with sand, that the shape of it is not correct; skin has torn where it was meant to heal, and he swears he can see bone and fat underneath where the blast has ripped open what was a pinprick wound to something like a slit purse.
Nausea makes his throat heavy. And no, it would not be the worst for him to be hurt, or for Ciri to be panicked. It's that all at once, it's too much -- and it slips through, his panic. That he may bleed out here in the desert with Ciri watching him.
Whether it's called by the expansion of pure, unshifted magic in the air or the spiking of Jaskier's heart, green blooms around him. Thick, thorned vines rip themselves through the sand, tossing it out of their way as they expand with unnatural speed. And finding their threat, they spring towards Ciri like sharp, tangling hands, forming a somewhat haphazard barrier between them.]
Ciri! [It's all he manages before he doubles over with a cry, feeling as if the veins of his arm themselves are expanding, heating, as if they might explode, and he cannot concentrate enough to pull on this unnatural magic the Horizon gifted him before it can attempt to constrict around her, to choke her.]