[If only he could snarl. Which he cannot, with a beak. (He's tried.)] Hah. Hah. You're hilarious. Has anyone ever told you Witcher humour is truly the lowest form of humour invented by the likes of man?
[No, he's not being dramatic about it. But he does bat his wings about until Geralt puts the dish of ale down low enough he can perch on the edge of it and -- perhaps not politely -- sip up bits of it with his strange bird tongue.
Yes, he could turn back. But there is a period after he tries a new form in which Jaskier tries to stay in it. To get accustomed to all its new bits and bobs. Admittedly, flying as an owl is not the same as the sharp-winged kestrel. It's much quieter, and requires a hint of finesse.
And he's fluffier. Which is annoying, now it's pointed out.
Jaskier goes still, his written words a hint slower.]
I did. Bleobheris is fine, for the most part -- luckily, it's one of the biggest things around -- but it's wrecked havoc on the glade. All the grasses and roots have torn up, and some of the smaller branches have broken from the tree. Moglad told me was almost crushed by one, if Mogworth hadn't saved him.
[He pauses again, large gold eyes turning to Geralt.]
And I found something. Something I thought I had long buried under Bleobheris, but... it was there, at the entrance, waiting for me. The stain of that god.
[He doesn't even wish to write her name. He wishes not to remember that at all.]
no subject
[No, he's not being dramatic about it. But he does bat his wings about until Geralt puts the dish of ale down low enough he can perch on the edge of it and -- perhaps not politely -- sip up bits of it with his strange bird tongue.
Yes, he could turn back. But there is a period after he tries a new form in which Jaskier tries to stay in it. To get accustomed to all its new bits and bobs. Admittedly, flying as an owl is not the same as the sharp-winged kestrel. It's much quieter, and requires a hint of finesse.
And he's fluffier. Which is annoying, now it's pointed out.
Jaskier goes still, his written words a hint slower.]
I did. Bleobheris is fine, for the most part -- luckily, it's one of the biggest things around -- but it's wrecked havoc on the glade. All the grasses and roots have torn up, and some of the smaller branches have broken from the tree. Moglad told me was almost crushed by one, if Mogworth hadn't saved him.
[He pauses again, large gold eyes turning to Geralt.]
And I found something. Something I thought I had long buried under Bleobheris, but... it was there, at the entrance, waiting for me. The stain of that god.
[He doesn't even wish to write her name. He wishes not to remember that at all.]