[ If Geralt were a man prone to fits of laughter, that is exactly what he'd be doing at Jaskier's assertion. Instead, there's a slightly more audible than usual noise from the back of his throat. Even before the Piper became something beyond mortal, he'd carved his name into the world with an endless supply of admirers.
He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. Despite his amusement, he understands what Jaskier means, too. The truth behind the words. The sense of something...fragile.
A thousand years is not a long time for worship to take hold. And yet, he can't help but wonder when their time will be up. When the pendulum might swing in favour of the so-called non-believers. ]
Hm. [ He urges Roach closer. She, too, has nothing to fear from the Maw. She's transcended with the rest of them, which is only fitting given how close of a companion she's been on the Path. ] Once or twice.
[ When they are close enough to hear its rumbling stomach, but adequately far from its putrid stench, he stops and dismounts with Jaskier still perched on his shoulder. Fruit. Uh-huh. He does not think it works that way. The Maw is obviously a carnivore. In the creature's defence, he agrees with Jaskier. Its devouring of people seems to be something encouraged by the humans. Which, frankly, he is neither surprised by and rarely cares to intervene upon. It is not his place to dictate how men cast judgment upon others. They will always find outsiders to exile and shun.
Perhaps he's found it easier not to dwell on that shit. At least he isn't the only one these days who exists apart from people. The ones who shape and make their societies, enshrining laws and rules and customs. The most he does is avoid his name invoked as a part of it. He is the one who arrives when coin is offered, nothing more. The measure of the man makes no difference. (Except, sometimes, more than sometimes, it does.)
Today, there are no sacrifices. His forest leaves keep the harsh desert sun at bay. His trees do not often bear fruit—that sort of growth is Jaskier's talent—but since the bard is with him, their magic curls together, intertwining. The branch above sags with the weight of ripe peaches.
He plucks one and gives it to Jaskier. His eyebrow lifts. Well? Go on. Feed your monster. ]
no subject
He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. Despite his amusement, he understands what Jaskier means, too. The truth behind the words. The sense of something...fragile.
A thousand years is not a long time for worship to take hold. And yet, he can't help but wonder when their time will be up. When the pendulum might swing in favour of the so-called non-believers. ]
Hm. [ He urges Roach closer. She, too, has nothing to fear from the Maw. She's transcended with the rest of them, which is only fitting given how close of a companion she's been on the Path. ] Once or twice.
[ When they are close enough to hear its rumbling stomach, but adequately far from its putrid stench, he stops and dismounts with Jaskier still perched on his shoulder. Fruit. Uh-huh. He does not think it works that way. The Maw is obviously a carnivore. In the creature's defence, he agrees with Jaskier. Its devouring of people seems to be something encouraged by the humans. Which, frankly, he is neither surprised by and rarely cares to intervene upon. It is not his place to dictate how men cast judgment upon others. They will always find outsiders to exile and shun.
Perhaps he's found it easier not to dwell on that shit. At least he isn't the only one these days who exists apart from people. The ones who shape and make their societies, enshrining laws and rules and customs. The most he does is avoid his name invoked as a part of it. He is the one who arrives when coin is offered, nothing more. The measure of the man makes no difference. (Except, sometimes, more than sometimes, it does.)
Today, there are no sacrifices. His forest leaves keep the harsh desert sun at bay. His trees do not often bear fruit—that sort of growth is Jaskier's talent—but since the bard is with him, their magic curls together, intertwining. The branch above sags with the weight of ripe peaches.
He plucks one and gives it to Jaskier. His eyebrow lifts. Well? Go on. Feed your monster. ]