[While normally Jaskier would be the first in the house to go absolutely insane at the quiet, the lack of company, having not performed or done much more than bake and take Feainna for walks -- he has still not found that spark of life in him he so desperately would like back. He's picked up his songbook several times only to lay it back down without a drop of ink spilled.
He's not content in being quiet and keeping to himself, but it's what has happened. The least he can say is all the excess in cooking has led to many gifts to the local orphans, who now somehow "end up in the neighborhood" several times a day, hungry as ever, while they take his bread loaves and attempt to pickpocket him nearly every time.
And so it remains quiet. Geralt is often out, and Ciri... well, he can only imagine she's the same. All of them have been scooped out like the heart of a fruit, left to heal from a wound that isn't clearly defined. It will be another afternoon of wet whisking, kneading, the hiss of pain when his wrist twinges. His arms have never been so sufficiently sore.
Then a lute note breaks the silence, as sharp as shattered glass. A shiver goes through him at the sound, like it's stabbed him right in the heart. But he does turn, spying over his shoulder, to just see Ciri's bent leg, and the beautiful rounded wood of her lute.
She's... playing?]
You need to tune her. [Badly. Oh, the poor, beautiful thing. He goes back to his kneading, but he stops again. He's surprised, actually, she isn't hunting out or... doing Lady of the Prophecy things. He's figured she wouldn't bother much with the instrument after a little time.
He looks over his shoulder again.] You remember how, don't you?
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He's not content in being quiet and keeping to himself, but it's what has happened. The least he can say is all the excess in cooking has led to many gifts to the local orphans, who now somehow "end up in the neighborhood" several times a day, hungry as ever, while they take his bread loaves and attempt to pickpocket him nearly every time.
And so it remains quiet. Geralt is often out, and Ciri... well, he can only imagine she's the same. All of them have been scooped out like the heart of a fruit, left to heal from a wound that isn't clearly defined. It will be another afternoon of wet whisking, kneading, the hiss of pain when his wrist twinges. His arms have never been so sufficiently sore.
Then a lute note breaks the silence, as sharp as shattered glass. A shiver goes through him at the sound, like it's stabbed him right in the heart. But he does turn, spying over his shoulder, to just see Ciri's bent leg, and the beautiful rounded wood of her lute.
She's... playing?]
You need to tune her. [Badly. Oh, the poor, beautiful thing. He goes back to his kneading, but he stops again. He's surprised, actually, she isn't hunting out or... doing Lady of the Prophecy things. He's figured she wouldn't bother much with the instrument after a little time.
He looks over his shoulder again.] You remember how, don't you?