[It is an inexplicable, ungodly hour in the morning, with the winds still blowing fierce and the sky still dark, where a crash echoes through the house. After the clatter, there is silence. Relatively. There is a small, echoing rustle in the corner, where one of Jaskier's latest acquisitions -- a vase -- has been placed. Recently excavated and carefully cleaned, it is, possibly, one of a kind.
And it is wobbling precariously.
Another silence, and then what could only be called a melancholy sound, spoken from a soft beak:
Hoooooooooooo...
The vase wobbles a second time, followed by an even more dismal hoot.
This is possibly the worst moment of Jaskier's life. Why on earth did they make the insides of this vase so fucking slippery? Is this how the bard's life ends? Not with a bang, but with a whimpered hoot? Shall he spend the rest of his days at the bottom of this vase, knowing if he turns back into a man it will either break his neck or shatter?
His hoot this time is much more plaintive, large eyes staring upfrom the bottom of the vase.]
closed.
And it is wobbling precariously.
Another silence, and then what could only be called a melancholy sound, spoken from a soft beak:
Hoooooooooooo...
The vase wobbles a second time, followed by an even more dismal hoot.
This is possibly the worst moment of Jaskier's life. Why on earth did they make the insides of this vase so fucking slippery? Is this how the bard's life ends? Not with a bang, but with a whimpered hoot? Shall he spend the rest of his days at the bottom of this vase, knowing if he turns back into a man it will either break his neck or shatter?
His hoot this time is much more plaintive, large eyes staring upfrom the bottom of the vase.]