[ If she feels Jaskier's nails digging into her arm, she does not complain about it. Ciri tightens her own grip around him to make sure he doesn't trip and slide out of her arms, half-carrying him until they've reached the scrubby little tree. It's a miracle the beasts didn't break free; the thing is apparently more stubbornly clinging to the sand than it looks. ]
We'll get you warmed up soon. [ Ciri promises, easing one hand away from Jaskier to make a grab for the nearest mule's lead. The animal flares its nostrils at her and shies, tossing its head, and Ciri swears under her breath. ]
Easy. Easy, boy... come on, now... please.
[ These animals are clearly more used to easy slogging trail rides carrying packs of supplies on their backs, not the smell of blood and magic and people screaming around them. These aren't battle-trained horses, just frightened, plodding little bastards. Ciri wants to shout, to yank the stupid animal to heel, but that will only be counterproductive.
Slowly (too fucking slowly), she coaxes the mule closer, tugging gently at his reins until he's close enough for her to rub his neck and try to drag Jaskier a little closer to the saddle.
His question reaches her with a few moments' delay, grinding her mule-related thoughts to a sudden halt. Ciri turns her head to look at him. ]
N-no... I'm not.
[ It's the first time she's actually stopped to realize it. She'd been so preoccupied with making sure Jaskier didn't bleed the fuck out that she hadn't even truly processed that her arms aren't covered in the deep scratches she knows should be there. The pain is a memory. A memory of vicious thorns and bruising, strangling vines -- and nothing more.
There's so much blood and dirt on both of them at this point, it takes her a long moment of staring at Jaskier to understand. Or-- no, not understand, exactly, but to start to maybe barely put it together. His throat is bruised and scratched, Ciri realizes with a jolt. His, but not hers. ]
...what the fuck?
[ The curse escapes in a dismayed whisper. She feels... a little sick. Ciri swallows hard, struggling to find her voice before she keeps talking, louder this time. Almost too loud, like she's trying to make up for her inability to sound truly reassuring in inflection by just saying the words bigger. ]
W-we need to get you to a healer. It's not far. Just gotta get you on this trusty little steed first.
Brace yourself.
[ It's not going to be pleasant or comfortable. Ciri remembers, very dimly, how Jaskier had laughed in the market on their first morning here and challenged her to carry him around. Lucky for him, she proves herself now.
Ciri shifts her grip, turning her shoulder into his body and bending her knees until he's draped over her, sack-of-potato-like. Now, she just has to get him into the saddle. Or vaguely across it. More or less. ]
no subject
We'll get you warmed up soon. [ Ciri promises, easing one hand away from Jaskier to make a grab for the nearest mule's lead. The animal flares its nostrils at her and shies, tossing its head, and Ciri swears under her breath. ]
Easy. Easy, boy... come on, now... please.
[ These animals are clearly more used to easy slogging trail rides carrying packs of supplies on their backs, not the smell of blood and magic and people screaming around them. These aren't battle-trained horses, just frightened, plodding little bastards. Ciri wants to shout, to yank the stupid animal to heel, but that will only be counterproductive.
Slowly (too fucking slowly), she coaxes the mule closer, tugging gently at his reins until he's close enough for her to rub his neck and try to drag Jaskier a little closer to the saddle.
His question reaches her with a few moments' delay, grinding her mule-related thoughts to a sudden halt. Ciri turns her head to look at him. ]
N-no... I'm not.
[ It's the first time she's actually stopped to realize it. She'd been so preoccupied with making sure Jaskier didn't bleed the fuck out that she hadn't even truly processed that her arms aren't covered in the deep scratches she knows should be there. The pain is a memory. A memory of vicious thorns and bruising, strangling vines -- and nothing more.
There's so much blood and dirt on both of them at this point, it takes her a long moment of staring at Jaskier to understand. Or-- no, not understand, exactly, but to start to maybe barely put it together. His throat is bruised and scratched, Ciri realizes with a jolt. His, but not hers. ]
...what the fuck?
[ The curse escapes in a dismayed whisper. She feels... a little sick. Ciri swallows hard, struggling to find her voice before she keeps talking, louder this time. Almost too loud, like she's trying to make up for her inability to sound truly reassuring in inflection by just saying the words bigger. ]
W-we need to get you to a healer. It's not far. Just gotta get you on this trusty little steed first.
Brace yourself.
[ It's not going to be pleasant or comfortable. Ciri remembers, very dimly, how Jaskier had laughed in the market on their first morning here and challenged her to carry him around. Lucky for him, she proves herself now.
Ciri shifts her grip, turning her shoulder into his body and bending her knees until he's draped over her, sack-of-potato-like. Now, she just has to get him into the saddle. Or vaguely across it. More or less. ]