[ Jaskier smells of rosemary and sage, which Geralt is rather fond of, as well, though he may never say it until the day he dies and far beyond. In any case, he can see the concerning pattern between his wolf's disappearance and now the moogle's. ]
I greatly dislike that rock.
[ Though Istredd does seem to be smitten with it. He, on the other hand, would prefer a world not beholden to the whims of forces contained in monoliths and wraiths and so-called gods. Still, it's here. He supposes there's no getting away from it now. In the end, he imagines the root of these disturbances lie where they always do: in the acts of men.
He has got his steel mount, yes. It waits just outside Jaskier's grassy domain, leaning on its kickstand. He swings his leg over the seat and waits. ]
no subject
I greatly dislike that rock.
[ Though Istredd does seem to be smitten with it. He, on the other hand, would prefer a world not beholden to the whims of forces contained in monoliths and wraiths and so-called gods. Still, it's here. He supposes there's no getting away from it now. In the end, he imagines the root of these disturbances lie where they always do: in the acts of men.
He has got his steel mount, yes. It waits just outside Jaskier's grassy domain, leaning on its kickstand. He swings his leg over the seat and waits. ]