[To their credit, the magic in him -- earth magic, as Rinwell so eloquently named it -- it tries. The ground near him splits, but there's too much. He's not this strong, creating these plants from nothing. The vines close to him split through the sand, snaking across the surface, and stop.
He feels the drain on him. The magic, pulling from his core, nearly like he felt Ciri did.
It's always been a miracle to him, how time can slow itself at will. How in the wake of a tragedy, or in the face of horrid fear. Time slithers like honey down a hill, trickling, winding its way down an unknown path. Jaskier knows, too, as she does. She is too far. She is too distracted. And he is not strong enough.
If he's lucky, the sword will only pierce his side. With his healing spell, maybe he can keep himself alive --
Lightning splits the air. Lightning, or a facsimile of it. A crackle. He hears his name -- not dim, as he'd assume, but loud and echoing and making him curl tighter, guessing the sword is raised and she can see it --
And then the striking. Two swords. He knows the sound well.
He moves immediately. Jaskier is not made for battle but he is made for survival. He's quick, scrambling through the sand, wincing when the wrong movement of his arm lances pain up so hot it stabs into his head. And despite it, he moves.
Then turns to see her, pushing against him, already injured. (Blood? Her blood?) The vine struggles, reaching still. No. Not Ciri.
He inhales, spittle flying.] Fuck off!
[It's a screech, cracking his voice, but the vine cannot hope but obey. It launches forward, uncoiling as if lengths were buried under the sand, and twists around the man's knee. Constricts, tight as a python, as Jaskier closes his fist, and the distinct sound of snapping bone splits the air. It's loud. Terribly, horribly loud. Loud enough to be heard over the man's cry as his leg gives in, and it begins to crumple beneath him.]
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He feels the drain on him. The magic, pulling from his core, nearly like he felt Ciri did.
It's always been a miracle to him, how time can slow itself at will. How in the wake of a tragedy, or in the face of horrid fear. Time slithers like honey down a hill, trickling, winding its way down an unknown path. Jaskier knows, too, as she does. She is too far. She is too distracted. And he is not strong enough.
If he's lucky, the sword will only pierce his side. With his healing spell, maybe he can keep himself alive --
Lightning splits the air. Lightning, or a facsimile of it. A crackle. He hears his name -- not dim, as he'd assume, but loud and echoing and making him curl tighter, guessing the sword is raised and she can see it --
And then the striking. Two swords. He knows the sound well.
He moves immediately. Jaskier is not made for battle but he is made for survival. He's quick, scrambling through the sand, wincing when the wrong movement of his arm lances pain up so hot it stabs into his head. And despite it, he moves.
Then turns to see her, pushing against him, already injured. (Blood? Her blood?) The vine struggles, reaching still. No. Not Ciri.
He inhales, spittle flying.] Fuck off!
[It's a screech, cracking his voice, but the vine cannot hope but obey. It launches forward, uncoiling as if lengths were buried under the sand, and twists around the man's knee. Constricts, tight as a python, as Jaskier closes his fist, and the distinct sound of snapping bone splits the air. It's loud. Terribly, horribly loud. Loud enough to be heard over the man's cry as his leg gives in, and it begins to crumple beneath him.]