[Well, that's fair. He meant the killing of -- of animals and things, because he is thinking of nothing further than that, and certainly not of Hector's offer to raise their... the bodies as personal little servants.
He shudders at the memory, moving on so she needn't ask about it.]
My, I thought you'd never ask. [Even if he knows he's mere distraction, Jaskier does so adore talking of himself. Especially of his music, of which no one hardly asks these days. (He does miss his adoring fans sometimes.)] Then drink, my dear, and I'll give you a few lines.
[He must return to his bread, though he knows that, for whatever reason, the dough would sit there for hours and never change, the yeast never dying, waiting for his touch again. (If only he could say that about people, not bread.) He's already gotten the fire going in the oven, so he slides it in on a bit of stone, grabbing the ale to refill both their mugs.
Rude rhymes are most usually his favorite, but it's not what he reaches for first.]
When I go to the market, there's this family of -- well, I imagine they must be a family -- of ravens. The littlest one, one of its wings is clipped or something. I've never seen it fly, only hop around. [He talks to fill the void between them, but also because the topic of choice gives a fair bit of warmth. A spot of hope in a world so quick to snuff it out.] You know, I write these things, these words, when I want to create but I lack the correct inspiration for real song. They're only ditties I keep to myself, practice to keep my voice alive.
[He hasn't a clue, really, how much he's gone on about singing or song with her, before they were here. And he can't help but think of it as another him, someone he might recognize but still holds unfamiliarity. That Jaskier has a life he has yet to live, memories he has yet to retain or to forget. Experiences, he bets, that they would both love to write of.
At any rate, she's asked, and he wants her to not think of this Alina for a spat, to focus on something foolish and hopeful and perhaps ridiculous instead.]
Anyway, I've been crafting a story of these ravens. A bit of an epic, if you will. Building on it every time I see them.
[As the fire of the oven crackles, he clears his throat, spinning the rings on his fingers.]
So you stumble, little raven, A useless ball of soot, Peck a seed, if you can find it Between a hundred thousand boots. And then here come four more ravens, Eight more wings to bear you up, Stealing bread and cheese and chicken, To fill that useless belly up.
[And yes, he's named all of them, and given them motivations, and backstories, likes and dislikes. And yet every single one of them coddles that clipped-wing bird, bringing it food and cuddling up by its side when they roost on the nearby signs or stalls.]
no subject
[Well, that's fair. He meant the killing of -- of animals and things, because he is thinking of nothing further than that, and certainly not of Hector's offer to raise their... the bodies as personal little servants.
He shudders at the memory, moving on so she needn't ask about it.]
My, I thought you'd never ask. [Even if he knows he's mere distraction, Jaskier does so adore talking of himself. Especially of his music, of which no one hardly asks these days. (He does miss his adoring fans sometimes.)] Then drink, my dear, and I'll give you a few lines.
[He must return to his bread, though he knows that, for whatever reason, the dough would sit there for hours and never change, the yeast never dying, waiting for his touch again. (If only he could say that about people, not bread.) He's already gotten the fire going in the oven, so he slides it in on a bit of stone, grabbing the ale to refill both their mugs.
Rude rhymes are most usually his favorite, but it's not what he reaches for first.]
When I go to the market, there's this family of -- well, I imagine they must be a family -- of ravens. The littlest one, one of its wings is clipped or something. I've never seen it fly, only hop around. [He talks to fill the void between them, but also because the topic of choice gives a fair bit of warmth. A spot of hope in a world so quick to snuff it out.] You know, I write these things, these words, when I want to create but I lack the correct inspiration for real song. They're only ditties I keep to myself, practice to keep my voice alive.
[He hasn't a clue, really, how much he's gone on about singing or song with her, before they were here. And he can't help but think of it as another him, someone he might recognize but still holds unfamiliarity. That Jaskier has a life he has yet to live, memories he has yet to retain or to forget. Experiences, he bets, that they would both love to write of.
At any rate, she's asked, and he wants her to not think of this Alina for a spat, to focus on something foolish and hopeful and perhaps ridiculous instead.]
Anyway, I've been crafting a story of these ravens. A bit of an epic, if you will. Building on it every time I see them.
[As the fire of the oven crackles, he clears his throat, spinning the rings on his fingers.]
So you stumble, little raven,
A useless ball of soot,
Peck a seed, if you can find it
Between a hundred thousand boots.
And then here come four more ravens,
Eight more wings to bear you up,
Stealing bread and cheese and chicken,
To fill that useless belly up.
[And yes, he's named all of them, and given them motivations, and backstories, likes and dislikes. And yet every single one of them coddles that clipped-wing bird, bringing it food and cuddling up by its side when they roost on the nearby signs or stalls.]
I know, I know. Clearly not my best.