[He can only barely see what caused the horse to rear, but it doesn't matter -- the man underneath her hooves is crushed, but Ciri is thrown. Jaskier all but jumps from his own horse, running towards the battle. It certainly feels like one, a real one, with screams of the animals, the cries of men, the smell of blood already assaulting his nostrils as he grows closer.
Oh gods, he doesn't know why he's running towards this. Towards her. By the time he's almost there, Ciri is underneath one of them, and his vines are snapping across the air, knocking the flamed torch from one man's hand. It twirls through the air, sputtering as it hits the sand and rolls, the flame going out.
And in a moment she is shoving the dead weight of the very dead off of her, and Jaskier is scrambling to stop his momentum from going forward. The sand slips under his boots, the dunes sloping downwards. He slips with a startled yell, tumbling forward, boots flying over his ass as he rolls. The vines thrash mindlessly, losing their control in his panic.
The world spins, the wind knocked out of him. He comes to a stop, his hands scrabbling in the sand to stop his movements, cutting the skin under his nails. And when he finally stops, dizzy and looks up, there he is. The one Jaskier thought had run. He had run.
Towards him.
Jaskier only has enough time to yelp and curl up the sight of a sword. Protect what he can. Not even enough time to hope for the vines.
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[He can only barely see what caused the horse to rear, but it doesn't matter -- the man underneath her hooves is crushed, but Ciri is thrown. Jaskier all but jumps from his own horse, running towards the battle. It certainly feels like one, a real one, with screams of the animals, the cries of men, the smell of blood already assaulting his nostrils as he grows closer.
Oh gods, he doesn't know why he's running towards this. Towards her. By the time he's almost there, Ciri is underneath one of them, and his vines are snapping across the air, knocking the flamed torch from one man's hand. It twirls through the air, sputtering as it hits the sand and rolls, the flame going out.
And in a moment she is shoving the dead weight of the very dead off of her, and Jaskier is scrambling to stop his momentum from going forward. The sand slips under his boots, the dunes sloping downwards. He slips with a startled yell, tumbling forward, boots flying over his ass as he rolls. The vines thrash mindlessly, losing their control in his panic.
The world spins, the wind knocked out of him. He comes to a stop, his hands scrabbling in the sand to stop his movements, cutting the skin under his nails. And when he finally stops, dizzy and looks up, there he is. The one Jaskier thought had run. He had run.
Towards him.
Jaskier only has enough time to yelp and curl up the sight of a sword. Protect what he can. Not even enough time to hope for the vines.
Oh gods oh fuck oh fuck --