[When Jaskier describes the event as "the absolutely fucking last thing I needed," he believes, in retrospect, it was an understatement. He had no other words for it. Geralt being gone without a word was, honestly, not even a thing that merited his attention. It was what he did. He just. Fucked off sometimes. And why would anyone worry, when he was more than capable of killing anything that looked at him the wrong way?
But both he and Ciri knew Geralt would not abandon Roach. Not to the desert. Not to the wilds. His horses were replaceable, of course, but they were well taken care of. He'd only known Geralt to take a new one when the last had grown ill or been grievously injured during a hunt.
Wait, no. There as an addendum to that previous statement. The last fucking thing he needed was him putting everything into not allowing Ciri to storm off into the desert alone on a wild chase that she might not return from. And though it wasn't fair of him, he had to use it at the last second: You can't leave me alone here. What if something happens? More ghosts? I can't fight a bloody ghost!
It wasn't an idle threat, considering.
So she stayed. It was enough time for him to run over to Sam's in order to ask for the aid of Red, Sam's bird, and then he'd had to juggle all of... all of that. Everything Sam was holding back that he hadn't realized.
Safe to say, Jaskier was hanging on by a thread.
Unfortunately, with Ciri tied up tighter than a succubus in church, his only verbal companion of late is Red, who is about the only one keeping Jaskier relatively well away from something drastic, like shouting curses at the sun.]
Here you are, my little friend. [He feeds the bird on his arm little strips of meat, which is a must-have on any desperate bid into the unknown.] I think you're very fortunate you have all these lovely feathers. I bet it's much cooler for you.
[There was a question if the bird he'd crafted himself actually felt temperature, but. Well. He glances at Ciri, with her pale hair sticking to her forehead, looking about as miserable as he feels. Even having abandoned his doublet (stuffed into a saddleback) and his nearly sheer chemise, he's still coated in sweat.
Jaskier chews his lip. He isn't afraid using that power at home, growing pots of herbs for their meals, for selling, where they're small and easily controlled (even if it has always felt natural.) But here, out in the desert, where the sweat and heat is stinging his scar, it's impossible to forget what happened last time he was here.
How much free, open land there is. Even if it's all shitty, sticky sand.
Red hops onto his shoulder as he stands, talons gently holding around his shoulder.] Here, my dear. [And it's Ciri he's speaking to now, moving behind her. His hands pull at those bristle shrubs, drawing on -- well, whatever it is that swirls in him now. The bushes thicken with sharp-edged leaves, but they're leaves nonetheless, and with a bit of effort they pull up high enough to craft a good line of shade over the two of them.
It's nearly immediate relief to be out of the direct sun.]
You should drink, too. It'll upset your stomach if you don't.
[He's simply searching for something to say. For anything to do that might be helpful.]
no subject
But both he and Ciri knew Geralt would not abandon Roach. Not to the desert. Not to the wilds. His horses were replaceable, of course, but they were well taken care of. He'd only known Geralt to take a new one when the last had grown ill or been grievously injured during a hunt.
Wait, no. There as an addendum to that previous statement. The last fucking thing he needed was him putting everything into not allowing Ciri to storm off into the desert alone on a wild chase that she might not return from. And though it wasn't fair of him, he had to use it at the last second: You can't leave me alone here. What if something happens? More ghosts? I can't fight a bloody ghost!
It wasn't an idle threat, considering.
So she stayed. It was enough time for him to run over to Sam's in order to ask for the aid of Red, Sam's bird, and then he'd had to juggle all of... all of that. Everything Sam was holding back that he hadn't realized.
Safe to say, Jaskier was hanging on by a thread.
Unfortunately, with Ciri tied up tighter than a succubus in church, his only verbal companion of late is Red, who is about the only one keeping Jaskier relatively well away from something drastic, like shouting curses at the sun.]
Here you are, my little friend. [He feeds the bird on his arm little strips of meat, which is a must-have on any desperate bid into the unknown.] I think you're very fortunate you have all these lovely feathers. I bet it's much cooler for you.
[There was a question if the bird he'd crafted himself actually felt temperature, but. Well. He glances at Ciri, with her pale hair sticking to her forehead, looking about as miserable as he feels. Even having abandoned his doublet (stuffed into a saddleback) and his nearly sheer chemise, he's still coated in sweat.
Jaskier chews his lip. He isn't afraid using that power at home, growing pots of herbs for their meals, for selling, where they're small and easily controlled (even if it has always felt natural.) But here, out in the desert, where the sweat and heat is stinging his scar, it's impossible to forget what happened last time he was here.
How much free, open land there is. Even if it's all shitty, sticky sand.
Red hops onto his shoulder as he stands, talons gently holding around his shoulder.] Here, my dear. [And it's Ciri he's speaking to now, moving behind her. His hands pull at those bristle shrubs, drawing on -- well, whatever it is that swirls in him now. The bushes thicken with sharp-edged leaves, but they're leaves nonetheless, and with a bit of effort they pull up high enough to craft a good line of shade over the two of them.
It's nearly immediate relief to be out of the direct sun.]
You should drink, too. It'll upset your stomach if you don't.
[He's simply searching for something to say. For anything to do that might be helpful.]