Jaskier "old-timey fuckboy" Alfred Pankratz (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cointosser) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2021-10-01 09:35 pm
cointosser) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-10-01 09:35 pm
[ CLOSED ] when I'm like this, you're the one I trust
Who: Jaskier, Ciri, Geralt, eventually Sam?
When: First week of October
Where: The desert outskirts of Cadens
What: Jaskier attempts to help Ciri learn magic with disastrous results.
Warnings: Bodily injury, may move to mild body horror depending.
[With the climate they found themselves in, it only made sense for them to really embrace their new... eccentric talents. At least, that was what Jaskier tells himself, and when he tells himself it -- regarding Ciri, in particular -- it all makes sense, of course. If they are all gifted with magic, then it only makes sense to make use of it.
After all, it's free. And they need skills to make a living off of. As far as he understands, Ciri is, er, well. Like Geralt. A hunter.
Magic, hunting. It all fits together.
Okay, fine. He's terribly bored also. And he's tired of being the only one with magic around here. (He's still avoiding the whole plant thing. He prefers not to think about it, actually.]
All right, my dear. I -- well, I don't claim to know many, er, spells, but we can start on what I started on. Simply a little bird. [He, of course, adds a completely unnecessary flourish to his movements, and a bit of sparks, holding out his hand with a dove sitting on his palm.]
It's a bit hard to describe. I sort of... imitated watching it, I suppose.
[He sort of definitely wants to see Ciri try to imitate his flourish.]
When: First week of October
Where: The desert outskirts of Cadens
What: Jaskier attempts to help Ciri learn magic with disastrous results.
Warnings: Bodily injury, may move to mild body horror depending.
[With the climate they found themselves in, it only made sense for them to really embrace their new... eccentric talents. At least, that was what Jaskier tells himself, and when he tells himself it -- regarding Ciri, in particular -- it all makes sense, of course. If they are all gifted with magic, then it only makes sense to make use of it.
After all, it's free. And they need skills to make a living off of. As far as he understands, Ciri is, er, well. Like Geralt. A hunter.
Magic, hunting. It all fits together.
Okay, fine. He's terribly bored also. And he's tired of being the only one with magic around here. (He's still avoiding the whole plant thing. He prefers not to think about it, actually.]
All right, my dear. I -- well, I don't claim to know many, er, spells, but we can start on what I started on. Simply a little bird. [He, of course, adds a completely unnecessary flourish to his movements, and a bit of sparks, holding out his hand with a dove sitting on his palm.]
It's a bit hard to describe. I sort of... imitated watching it, I suppose.
[He sort of definitely wants to see Ciri try to imitate his flourish.]
no subject
Oh. [He clears his throat suddenly.] I didn't realize you saw that.
[Not that he was particularly ashamed of it or anything, but it had been a petty enjoyment in the moment. And considering Ciri has some sort of... of respect for her...
Well.]
It's certainly not my most skilled spell, but we can start with that. [To be fair, he only knows, like... three. Still.] Er, do you have a knife by any chance? We can start on something small.
[It totally makes sense to him to practice on a real injury.]
no subject
I do, but...
[ She hesitates, resting a hand on the hilt of it at her belt, but not drawing. ]
What, exactly, are you planning on using it on?
[ She's not so keen on them stabbing each other for practice when Jaskier has just admitted he's not that skilled and she's just a bundle of completely inexperienced nerves with bad associations. ]
no subject
Why do you and Geralt always think I'm going to come up with the worst ideas? What do you think I'm going to do? Cut a finger off?
[He holds out his hand impatiently for the knife. Honestly, he does not appreciate being treated like a child just because a sharp object is within reach. It's as if all these people don't think he's survived on his own up to this point.] I'm just going to prick a finger. Come on, Ciri, we don't have all day.
no subject
[ Ciri stares at him, brow crinkling. After a moment, she sighs and relents.
Ciri pulls the knife from its sheath and hands it over, hilt toward him. ]
All right.
no subject
And it affects him more than he wishes to admit.]
Thank you. [He holds it carefully just so he's quite sure she doesn't think he's about to stab either one of them -- which is an absolutely insane thought, he might add.] This one was a little more difficult, I feel. To explain, at least. I think of it as... a reversal, I suppose? Picturing the energy, or chaos, or whatever, gradually making the wound undone.
[And it may be harder to concentrate if the wound is on her, a prickling or not. He decides not to go for a finger, actually -- he needs those to play. Carefully, he nicks the very tip of the knife against the top of his forearm. A tiny cut he might receive from a thorn. He holds his arm out. He hisses, but it's far from the worst pain he's had.
Doesn't quite contend with almost dying from a djinn's magic.] Here.
no subject
His explanations were starting to make sense, but his insistence on teaching by simply doing, trial and error, are only making her nervous again.
The little nick is no big deal; blood certainly doesn't bother her. But Ciri slowly shakes her head. ]
All right. But shouldn't you show me first? I can't just do it. What if I... do it wrong?
no subject
After all, Geralt does not hesitate. And if she were trained by him --]
What are you so worried you'll do? [He tilts his head, brows coming together. Well, whatever. He doesn't mind giving a demonstration, either.
He brings his other hand to above the wound, closing his eyes. It isn't part of the magic, but it helps him concentrate -- so he hums as he gathers the magic, picturing the knife going backwards. The blood trickling back inside. Skin stitched together, as he has once stitched his friend's wound.
The cut on his arm heals, skin unblemished beyond a red stain. Jaskier licks his finger, rubbing it away.] You know, you owe me a sweet roll for this, making me cut myself twice.
[It's an attempt to alleviate the weight in the air again, and he says it with a smile.] Does that help?
no subject
She steps in closer, trying to actively observe, to feel any of the magical energy, piecing together theories and memories.
She remembers how it felt. In the desert. Alone. How the power of the fire had ripped through her like a torrent.
This isn't like that. This is a different place, a different sphere entirely, years of experience between them. And she is not alone. She is not a scared, desperate child who doesn't know what to do.
She takes a deep breath, and lets it out with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. ]
I'll buy you two.
Thank you.
no subject
You're welcome. [He gives her a glitzy little curtsy, befit for a princess.] My highness.
[It's easy to tease; it's always what he reaches for when things feel too serious when they shouldn't be. Jaskier, despite all odds, likes his magic. He enjoys it. It makes his performances more interesting, gives him something to improve. Something new to understand in the world.]
Now, it's your turn. And I will be very sad if I scar because you hesitate, all right?
[So he cuts himself again. It still hurts and he still hisses, but it's really nothing. A trifle.] Come now, my dear. It's barely a pinprick.
no subject
[ She doesn't sound upset though, not like she hates it -- simply that it doesn't suit her, here and now.
And then he lifts the knife again, and she reaches up, startled that he just goes for it immediately. But she's too late to stop him, and instead watches the blood bead up. ]
Don't say that. What happened to believing in your student?
[ Ciri stands a little closer, taking his arm in her hands, one bracing the underside of his forearm and the other hovering timidly above.
She swallows. It's just a pinprick, as he says. Just a tiny cut.
She wants this, Ciri reminds herself.
She doesn't want to be helpless to help someone she cares about again. Sometimes, a good offense isn't always the best defense. ]
It probably just won't work.
[ This sounds less like she's putting herself down, and more like she's trying to assuage her own uncertainty. ]
no subject
If you think I've already stopped believing in you, you're very mistaken. It's motivation. Surely Geralt bullied you into it during all your training!
[Well, he imagines so. To be fair, he hasn't ever seen Geralt do a proper teaching of anything. If he wanted something out of him, he had to pull it from the witcher, word by word, without a single thing offered easily.
Like pulling teeth, one might say.]
Be patient. I mean, don't hesitate, but be patient. [It wasn't like he was going to bleed out, at this right. It was a little sting. He gives her a pat on the shoulder with his other arm, staying still otherwise.]
It should come. I mean, unless you want me to suffer. It may even get infected. A terrible fate indeed.
no subject
Nobody can do this for her. Jaskier can keep explaining until the sun goes down, but he is right about one thing: she won't be able to do it unless she does it. Unless she tries. ]
Please, Jaskier. Be quiet.
[ This is said with her best attempt at gentle patience, as he recommends.
Ciri places her hand over his arm again, where the shallow cut has already almost stopped bleeding, the edges of it blurry with dried red that hadn't thickened enough to drip properly. She takes in a deep, slow breath -- and with it, she begins to concentrate. To expand her consciousness to the air around them, the heat, the dryness, the sand, the earth. The elements that make up everything around them, the chaos (magic) that stitches it all together.
She reaches out, not pulling or grabbing, but asking. A timid supplication. It is just a little wound; it only needs a little magic, only a little borrowed energy from the earth and the air, only a tiny droplet out of the faucet. ]
no subject
The air shifts, crackling around Ciri's hands, hot and thick not with the desert sun and sand but something else.
The magic hums -- a feeling, not a sound -- a buzz that charges the space between them. It sings through Ciri's blood and crawls through her marrow, and it fills her veins with liquid light. The luminescent glow of it reaches her eyes, wide with shock and terror.
And she panics. She doesn't know how to shut the faucet back off. ]
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.]
no subject
For a moment, Ciri is petrified with shock, wild-eyed and panting as the magic surges through her and she scrambles to find the center of gravity that will stamp it back down. She knows, distantly, that she needs to calm down. Breathe. Think. Focus.
It's impossible. Jaskier shouts her name, and everything is worse from there.
The vines slam into her with a force that heaves Ciri into the air and knocks the breath from her already straining lungs. She tries to scream, a thin and voiceless sound that wheezes from her throat, escapes alongside the frenzied coruscation of magic seeping out of her mouth and eyes and hands. Blood stains the front of her cream-white blouse, dripping from the gouges dug by dozens of vicious little thorns as one of the vines wraps around her neck and squeezes; several more bind her arms, her legs, wrap around her waist and ribs. She thrashes, and they tighten, thorns digging in and tearing through the bare skin at her wrists and forearms, pricking only slightly less painfully through the cloth that mercifully covers her thighs and calves. They hold her aloft, arms spread wide, but if the intent -- as much as there was one in the wild, reactive panic -- is to incapacitate, the result is not quite a success.
The magic reacts this time unbidden, and the glow that surrounds her flashes sickly-green like something poisonous, slides out with her blood and shines on her skin. Ciri screams again, this time aloud, shrill and painful. Fresh vines that try to lash her meet what seems to be a glimmering shield that fits her body like a second skin, thorns unable to break through even as they wind around her in an attempt to further restrain the girl's jerking, squirming struggles.
The air smells of blood and ozone. One of the shrieking beasts of burden rears and kicks, as if trying to uproot the entire tree. ]
no subject
IT would be much easier to not move, to curve over his arm and fall into the ebbing consciousness that is begging to pull him out of the pain. But fuck it. He's had worse. He's gotten hurt on the road. Choked and drowned in blood. Felt djinn hands wrap around his throat (metaphorically.)
It's Ciri's scream that gets him moving, pushing up to his knees with his good arm. He looks up, stares at this writhing green mass in front of him, raised perfectly in a semi-circle around him. Not touching him, Protecting him. Like when he fell from the portal. When he wound himself too tight with Geralt.
It is a power that silly little human bards are not meant to have.]
Ciri, it's all right! It -- [Fuck. He bites back a scream, jostling his arm the wrong way. His sight blurs. That might be more blood than he's used to. Maybe. There was a lot that came out of his mouth last time. And he can't see through the fucking vines. He shoves one aside, pushing on it with his good arm, even if it's terribly weak. To his shock, it moves. Controlled by his hand, as much as it isn't. Just -- enough of a pull on the magic, and surely the bloody things will return to where they came from --
He isn't sure whether it's the sound of her scream that sends him back to the ground, or how his head wavers. A combination of the two. He can't hear it above the scream, but it might be his own, too, mixing with it. Where the thorns struck her, he can feel it. Thorns piercing his skin. Slicing up his arms, his stomach.
His hand jumps to his throat. The pressure there. Any noise he wasa making strangles itself into silence, as he holds his throat with his entire body one thumping, bleeding thing, and he has the moment of clarity to think, not fucking again.
Once Jaskier loses consciousness, the vines pull back from where they were slamming against her shield, her magic, moving together. And all at once, they fade into nothing, leaving the girl with an unconscious bard and two extremely disturbed mules.]
no subject
'It's all right,' he says. He's wrong.
Something shoves against the vines, mixing Jaskier's magic and hers, reaching out and entangling them. Where the vines had gashed her skin, it begins to knit back together, and with the sudden healing, her flesh pushes out the broken-off shrapnel of plant matter buried in her body and forcibly removes each thorn and itchy green bit, leaving bloody skin unblemished beneath the smears.
And then, the plants drop her all at once. Vanished, nonexistent. The pressure releases entirely, and so does the force holding her up, letting gravity take its toll.
Ciri crumples. The force of the earth meeting her body knocks out a sharp cry, rattling her skull. For several long, shocked moments, she curls in on herself with the sand and the blood between her teeth, gritty and metallic on her tongue as she lays beneath the hot sun and finally, mercifully, breathes. Heaving, wet breaths, fighting to remember what thoughts are. It feels like a century, but it's only a matter of seconds before she remembers Jaskier. ]
--fuck.
[ The appalled hiss that sputters out past the sand on her lips seems suddenly loud in the silence that follows, the roar of blood and magic in her head having receded as suddenly as it had come. Only the whimpering and braying of the mules in the distance rivals the wind for noise now, the desert completely empty and uncaring of their plight. ]
No, no, no no no...
[ The world sways and swims, shiny and unclear with tears. Ciri staggers almost to her feet, falls. Crawls the rest of the way. ]
Jaskier!
[ Her first instinct is to shake him, perhaps unhelpfully. Her hands find his shoulders for a moment or two, and then she seems to realize this is a stupid thing to do and instead turns her frayed focus to his arm. It's bloodied terribly, right down to the bone. It isn't the gore that makes her stomach churn.
This is her fault. ]
Jaskier... please... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...
[ He's bleeding. Fuck. Fuck, he's bleeding so much. Her chest moves shallowly, fast and frenzied, searching his face, his body, making sure he's breathing and that the worst of it is the most visible gash (it's just a pinprick, he'd said; just a scratch).
With trembling hands, Ciri yanks her bloodstained, tattered shirt off and begins to press it into the wound, trying to hold his flesh shut. ]
no subject
It's freezing cold.
He screws one eyes shut and managed to force the other open, head swimming. He recognizes a voice, and seconds later it all sorts of puts itself together. He does, at least, recognize its owner, too.]
Cirilla, please. [He tries to move his other arm and suddenly finds he cannot. It's as if he can't feel it at all except as this pulsating, horrible pain.] P -- princesses do not apologize.
[Why is there so much fucking sand? He recalls screaming. Hearing it. From how his throat feels, doing it, too. He rubs at his eyes, blinking sand off his lashes, and finally looks down at the mass that is his arm. He doesn't recognize the shirt at first, if only because it's soaked in red.] Oh, fuck. That's a lot of -- that's all mine?
[Another row of dizziness hits him and he sways.] Where's... [Where's?] I think I'm going to faint.
[It's a little late for that.]
no subject
Stay with me, Jaskier. Please. Look at me. Eyes on me.
[ She says, as she leans over him, face streaked with sweat and tears and sand. It's impossible to tell how much blood he's lost, but it does seem... a lot. A fucking lot. Ciri gulps in hot desert air that dries her throat out on impact, her face a picture of misery and shock, but her hands are surprisingly steady. They move as if with a will of their own, driven by practiced years of tending her own injuries, which have left their mark on her exposed arms and torso in visible scars. She ties the cloth tight around his arm and scoots around behind him, leaning Jaskier's upper body against her knees to keep him steady and on his side (back is too risky; what if he chokes or vomits?) as she tugs off her belt and uses it to strap his arm steady across his chest.
The whole while, whether he's managed to stay awake or not, she keeps talking, desperately trying to reassure herself just as much as him. ]
You're going to be all right. You'll be okay. We'll find you a healer. A real one. I'm sorry. Gods, I'm so-- fuck-- Y-you're all right. We'll get you fixed up and you can sing a stupid song about this later. I'll give you my share of all the sweet buns as long as you ask.
Just don't fucking die on me from such a little scratch. You'll embarrass yourself. What will I tell Geralt?
[ What is she going to tell Geralt?
Ciri starts crying again. ]
no subject
There were knives. A knife. And vines.
He does look at her because following orders in the moment feels very easy; much easier than trying to put things together. Right. He was going to faint -- or had he? The moment feels wavy, dreamlike. She tugs the shirt around his arm too tight and the pain is a lightning flash through his head, a crack. He cries out and all at once is very, very awake. It makes him quite aware of how cold he is beginning to feel.
Oh no. She's prattling. Only Jaskier is supposed to prattle. Things are very bad, then.] I'm -- I'm sure I'm fine. [With whatever she's doing. His head spins again. The air is thick with the smell of blood. It is startling familiar to him, like when Geralt slays a monster --]
Geralt. [He croaks it, his throat and mouth dry. His lips hurt, too. Even among everything else, he can feel the pain of them rubbed raw from sand.] You -- you should get... Geralt. He can help.
[For the moment, he cannot remember Geralt is not here. Even though he's not really sure where he is still. He tries to get up to his knees, not realizing one of his arms is now immobile. Oh, shit. Geralt will never let him hear the end of this.] Ciri, where is your shirt?
[Oh, boy. He might be going into shock. His stomach twists.] Please stop crying.
[It was very much terrifying him.]
no subject
[ Ciri chokes out the words, trying to swallow the tears, responding both to his plea for her to stop crying and to get Geralt. She wants nothing so badly as to get him right now, but she cannot. She wishes she could grab hold of Jaskier and portal them both out of here immediately, at least get them back to the inn-- but she dare not.
So she buckles her belt in a shitty, makeshift sling around Jaskier's chest and shoulder to keep his torn arm steady, and when he tries to stagger up to his knees, she staggers upward too and hauls him up alongside her. ]
I took it off. [ She finally answers his question, distantly, voice flat now that the tears have been willed to a stop. ] It's hot.
[ He can't tell what's going on. That's a bad sign, but Ciri does her best to shove the panic toward the back of her head, turning her focus on what needs to be done next. She's done all she can for Jaskier here. ]
Come on, Jaskier. Stay with me. Move your legs. You can walk.
[ She bears most of his weight with his good arm across her shoulders, dragging him along if he can't make the steps, pulling them both toward the mules that shy and snort at her approach. ]
Easy... [ She might be talking to the animals, or to Jaskier, or to herself. Reassuring all of them, perhaps. ]
no subject
Is it? It feels... [He's already shivering a bit.] Cold.
[Somewhere in the very back of his mind, he recognizes that may also be a bad thing. Ciri certainly, in comparison to his own clammy skin, is blazing hot; a star, a sun. He holds onto her with what strength he has, which is trickling out about the same rate as his blood. Stay with her. Yes. He's here. On his feet all of a sudden. He's lost the seconds between being near the sand, and standing.
He can't quite tell what it is. Why he's fading so quickly. It's not always like this, is it? His body feels as if stones have been tied to every extremity. Eventually he's simply holding onto her by digging his nails into her skin, not even fully realizing it.]
Oh. That explains the sounds. [Mules. They'd brought mules with them here. It's even getting hard to talk. Between his breaths that are far too shallow, the energy for it is simply... not there.
Another bad sign. Jaskier has never been quiet during his injuries.
Injuries. That reminds him -- the smallest moment of clarity, as she maneuvers him near their pack mules.] You're not hurt?
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. ]
no subject
Brace yourself.
Unfortunately, he has nothing to brace with.
Fortunately, he no longer has the energy to scream.
Because he wants to. All at once, every little cut and thorn in him makes itself utterly known, kickstarted by the flash of pain from his arm. He doesn't scream, but he does make a sick, wet moan.
This is all very bad, but his head continues to float.
He doesn't fight her hold, no matter how much it hurts. And by the time she's managed to get him slung across the mule's saddle -- it's not exactly the first time this has happened -- his head is swimming and he's drifting in and out of consciousness, seconds at a time.
He slips back awake, the mule underneath too warm to his touch. He swears, distantly, he can hear the cry of a bird. A hawk.]
no subject
So Ciri prioritizes moving quickly over both their comfort, as neither of them are going to be in any way at ease no matter what. She hoists Jaskier up, leaving him listlessly draped over the mule for a minute while she gathers up the lead of the second animal and ties it securely to the saddlebag strap in the back, leaving enough room to keep either beast from panicking. Luckily, as hauling mules used to walking in chains and being weighed down, they should be both sturdy enough to hold two riders at once and follow one another without complaint.
Once she's sure they're about as likely to all get back to the city as possible, as a configuration, Ciri pulls herself up behind Jaskier. He's unconscious again. Ignoring this -- and the way it makes her blood cold and clammy inside her -- she moves him, painfully rolling over and adjusting his limp body to lean across her lap instead of slung face down like so much luggage.
They ride. He drifts, and she talks to him, aimless and stupid little words that leave her mouth and are lost to the gritty wind with neither of them remembering their contents. He moans, and she soothes his sweaty brow with the back of a hand and a muffled curse.
Somewhere overhead, a hawk cries. Its shadow falls on them, circling. ]
Nothing dead for you to scavenge here. [ Ciri mutters, ignoring it and pressing the mule faster despite its heavy burden. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)