[ CATCH-ALL ] and what you see is not the dark

[wiedzminka]

Who: Ciri & the friends(?) she made along the way
When: end of May - mid June
Where: Cadens, Nocwich, Horizon maybe
What: catching up after the wild and wacky 800 years that didn't happen
Warnings: in subject lines if necessary but probably none

it's just the gods upturning inkpots
'cause they know what you'll become

Comments

[cointosser]

[Consider him possessed by a demon and fully gone if he could truly ignore the sound of a lute in pain. Jaskier sighs, with a heaving of his shoulders; somewhat put upon as, he imagines, her "a little" is in the same way.

They've lived together far too long.

He washes his hands up, making sure he's picked out the little nodules of dough that keep getting stuck under his nails. This is why they stay dirty -- if they stay that way, he can't think of how dirty the bloody things got. How naked he feels without all his rings on.]

Go on, move over. [Is his answer. He takes a seat beside her, reaching over to place her hands correctly -- to twist the pegs to tighten the strings correctly. He tests the strum until he's satisfied, mostly muttering to himself as he walks them both through the steps of her tuning.]

She's dusty. You haven't even been cleaning her off?

[wiedzminka]

[ Here he comes, taking the bait. Hook, line and sinker. It's even easier than she expected.

Ciri scoots enough to let him join her on the sofa, accepting the guidance of his hands on hers adjusting the angle of the instrument, the pegs that need to be turned. She knows how, of course, but Jaskier can hear when everything sounds just right more easily than she can. And he enjoys it more, if only he can let himself remember and focus on that, just for a little bit.

It isn't fair that he chastises her when they've been gone for weeks (and the time after, she hadn't been exactly focused either, much like a certain someone sitting next to her). But Ciri won't pull his attention back to that again. She loves him enough to let him gripe at her and not even roll her eyes. ]

It's the desert. It gets dusty here. [ That's all she says.

Her fingertips skim the strings. She plucks them one by one, watching his face for approval with each note. ]

[cointosser]

[He's pretending he doesn't know he's being absolutely used. Used worse than this poor, pathetic lute. (At least she's only dusty, not damaged.) His fingers move across her delicate neck, testing the strings. No longer reduced to relying on catgut, these strings are some sort of synthetic fibre, no longer likely to snap.

They sit, shoulder to shoulder, while he tests each string, his lips closing to concentrate on the sounds. Easier that way; he's done this so many times he could do it in his sleep.

It's an effort to leave it alone in her hands to test the strings a second time. With every correct pluck, he gives a nod, a quiet "there, perfect," but with the sharper sounds he indicates a turning of the peg.] Do you still remember the first song I taught you?