[ CLOSED ] when I'm like this, you're the one I trust

[cointosser]

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.]

Comments

[cointosser]

Geralt, she's a horse. She does not. And why would she bite me? I'm much nicer than you!

[The exclamation makes him cough. Worth it. He takes a few gulps, shifting his legs under his blanket. It gives him a good way to hide any potential laughing he may do. Geralt's defense of his horse is not surprising, and yet it's always been... so fucking funny. Melitele herself would not dare insult Roach where Geralt could hear. (Only Jaskier dares, somehow.)

Jaskier throws his hands towards his friend as if to show this is exactly one way in which Jaskier is much nicer than him. He would never steal half a sick man's bed. And so why is he shifting over and making room with only a few mumbles of complaint? It. Doesn't matter.]

Don't tell me you're trying to escape Sam. [He even lifts the corner of the blanket and drops it on the Witcher's legs.] Though I imagine he must be overbearing to someone like you.

[gynvael]

[ Uh-huh. Geralt doesn't argue because it isn't the point. (He knows Jaskier is laughing, and perhaps that's worthwhile enough on its own.) He ignores Jaskier's exasperated gestures, though in Geralt's defence, he's got one foot off the bed just so Jaskier isn't shoved right off the other side.

He leans back against the pillows. Is he? No. Not escape. Just to give Sam some room. They've invaded his damn home, after all. As hospitable as Sam is, Geralt thinks it still must be a headache. Especially when Sam's got his own shit going on. Someone missing altogether. Someone Geralt still hasn't got any idea what the fuck happened to. ]

He's only that way with you. You absorb it like a crusty bread in soup.

[ The attention, Geralt means, which he isn't saying just to poke fun. Rather, it's that Sam is different with Jaskier than he is with Geralt. Because Sam was overbearing, at first. And then, surprisingly, he wasn't. Geralt is not so oblivious that he doesn't realize it's simply because the man made an effort to step back with the Witcher in particular. There's something to be said about that even if he's refusing to ruminate upon it. About how he feels. Jaskier might've sensed it regardless; Geralt would've normally left the moment Jaskier was capable of moving. Taken the bard and Ciri home. If it were anyone but Sam, he'd have never placed them in the hands of another while he was still not entirely at full strength.

But he's here. Accepting the...help. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier gasps. Though it's soft, it's certainly a trademark of Jaskier Insult.] How dare you call me crusty. I'm like a fluffy brioche, straight from the oven, full of steam and butter.

[All right, so maybe his appetite truly was beginning to return. Yet his sandwich is now gone and he's trapped against the wall with a Witcher between him and fresh brioche. A shame. So instead, he relaxes and slides down to lay out beside him. His body was still sore, but the bed was damn comfortable. At least he hadn't been forced to heal out on a bedroll somewhere.

He smiles to himself, that he can so easily pick out the words that Geralt doesn't say. Geralt has always had a habit of giving far more information in what he doesn't say than what he does: that Sam has figured out how to approach the Witcher, which Jaskier likes to think is his doing, considering he described so aptly how his friend behaves. (So Sam has a bit part in it, maybe.) And if Geralt was not at least somewhat comfortable here, he would be gone in an instant. Now that they are sure Jaskier isn't meant to expire on the spot.

Jaskier pats his chest as the Witcher breathes. (Or, is it in this moment, Geralt wants company as well? Even Jaskier can't be sure of that.)]

Maybe you ward him off with your scaaaary Witcher face. Speaking of crusty.

[gynvael]

[ The sound that comes from Geralt's chest is close to a laugh. He looks away before too much can be read on his face. (Not a lot at all, to anyone else, but Jaskier knows him far too well.)

He shifts over a hint for Jaskier to lay down, tucks one arm behind his head. Another day of proper sleep, he'll be back to normal. It's possible the whole thing took more out of him then he'd anticipated. This was different. His injuries were usually tangible: an ache or pain he can pinpoint. This time, he was simply worn down, all of his body sluggish.

It's funny. On occasion he thinks about that. How Sam doesn't entirely know him, and if Geralt might ward him off if he did know everything. Geralt hasn't dwelled on it, exactly, but—its a reality that exists, that's all. Perhaps it isn't important for now. And either way, he does trust Sam regardless. As rare as that is for him.

(He does, maybe, want company from an old friend, deep down in a place he'll not ever acknowledge.) ] Didn't work as well on you as I'd always wanted.

[cointosser]

[There is an ease in laying out beside Geralt, a normality, after a thousand nights (not consecutively, of course) of camping beside him, sleeping in bedrolls beside each other or together in an inn room (half the time it's all Geralt can afford.) This bed is rather nice compared to most of the ones they've shared, and even Jaskier can hear activity outside the room... not the loud, raucous buzz of a busy tavern, but a gentle shuffling, a door closing. Muffled words. Was Ciri back? Had Sam gone out to talk to her?

She must be all right. Geralt would not be here otherwise. Certainly not lying in bed. Getting the Witcher to still when he wasn't meditating was hard enough.

Jaskier snorts.] I'm not so sure you wanted to scare me off. [He leaves that in the air, more of a tease than a character analysis, but Jaskier, despite his endless words and hollers and boundless energy has always been quite perceptive. The White Wolf in the corner of the pub, tucked in a bench with his two swords beside him, radiating an aura of get the fuck away from me -- a man who took a job for shit pay on what almost appeared to be mere whim, who offered him a walk back to town with no further explanation.

Who came running back from his mission because a bard had blown up.

Jaskier pinches Geralt's cheek.] Who could be afraid of this? It'd be like being afraid of a baby griffin.

[He has to be twice as annoying for being twice nearly dead. And because his heart is squeezing painfully with overwhelming affection for this Witcher. It's not the first time he's saved Jaskier's life, but, fuck -- it's a reminder of what he'll do to save it.

It has never been a joke to him, really, the thought of Geralt as a knight. Well. Outside his abysmal attitude.]

[gynvael]

[ Geralt glances sidelong at Jaskier. He huffs. In all honesty, Geralt only thinks of their first meeting on rare occasions. (Jaskier had been young, bright-eyed, and over the years, not one bit of that's changed.) Not that it isn't of any significance; it's only that it's not ever been any one thing with Jaskier, any one point where Jaskier migrated from annoying little shit to friend.

And back to a fucking nuisance. He makes a face, swatting Jaskier's hand away. ] Fuck off.

[ He sighs. Thrice as annoying is more like it. And yet, he's still here, lingering at Jaskier's bedside when Jaskier is, for the most part, doing all right and sure as hell hasn't got a need for someone keeping an eye on him. For which he's glad. He isn't sure what he'd have done if—

Something more, something worse, had happened. If he'd been even further out in the desert, if Ciri hadn't found him in time.

He lets the silence lapse between them, or otherwise lets Jaskier fill it as the bard wishes without much commentary on his part. Only after a few minutes does he speak up again, with one thing he'd meant to tell Jaskier and hadn't had the chance to. ]

I spoke to someone who developed magic like yours. An ability out of nowhere, after leaving Thorne.

[cointosser]

[He laughs softly, and it leaves him breathless at the end of it, but gods, it was worth it to see that scowl. If there's one thing he can depend on, it's that Geralt will remain the same no matter what happens.

And it will always be easy to annoy him.

For once, Jaskier settles into silence. He's exhausted, to be honest, even now. The potion had healed the arm, but it couldn't make up for days of lying prone on a bed, without eating. Without resting, even. Which he continues to do, actually. He focuses on breathing, the slow in and out of lungs expanding, deflating. The beat of his own heart. At least he can't feel it anymore. How it has quieted to the rhythm it should hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes. He didn't remember closing them.]

Did you? Who? [He turns on his side, stretching out.] Estinien did too, actually. I found him in the Horizon. I suppose I saw a bit of it, in the chaos. Turns into a bloody dragon now. Or, well. Something a bit more scale-y than... elf-y.

[gynvael]

Amos. Just a human. [ Very human. Supposedly without a lick of magic or monsters in his world. Jaskier is unlikely to know him; the man had been quiet in the dungeons, and mostly out of sight, but he finds it interesting it occurred only after Thorne.

Or during the chaos? He looks over, curious. Estinien, too, was it? Hm. He considers asking more, but Jaskier looks tired as fuck and his only intention had been perhaps, to let Jaskier know that he isn't alone in this strange occurrence. He lets it be. It isn't long before Jaskier's breathing begins to steady and deepen. Once he's certain Jaskier won't wake, he silently slips off the bed. The bard sleeps like a rock, anyhow.

He lingers for a second, watching. (It'd been far too fucking close. All of this.) Then he leaves, to see if he can find either Sam or Ciri. Maybe find something he can do while they've taken over Sam's home. ]