[ CLOSED ] tell them that the villains on my list

[wiedzminka]

Who: Ciri, Jaskier, and others
What: Geralt has gone missing. Ciri and Jaskier are on the case.
Where: Around Cadens, the desert outside it, perhaps the other Free Cities; possibly Horizon and Network
When: Mid-November
Warnings: violence, gore, dismemberment

If you'd like to plot out a thread, please PM Ciri or Jaskier's journals, or catch us on Plurk at belleteyn and scathefire respectively!

Comments

[cointosser]

[And so like Geralt, it is rather hard for him, even for his bountiful wisdom and innate empathy, to see whether his words have made any difference to her. They sit quietly. They drink. He thinks of how "Needful Little Things" is a good title to a song, planning to write that down for later. Despite this rather dreadful and dreary last month, the things that have risen in him from living through it are truly an emotional gradient his personal muses speak to.

When it's the wolf who has been lost,
Who will he call to?

When she speaks again, his body straightens. He smiles, soft.] Of course. Until you ask for it.

[There is hope yet. He plucks the letter off of the table and carefully folds it (after making sure there is no residual dough on his fingers, thank you.) He won't read it. It is not his to read. Besides, Ciri has already told him its contents, and he sincerely doubts Alina is a prolific letter-author. He stands to place it in his song-writing book, tucked between the final few pages.] Now, do you really wish to stay here and get drunk, or do you want to... I don't know. [He lifts his arms, then drops them to prop his hands on his hips.] Go wild? Ride a horse? Kill something?

[wiedzminka]

Thanks.

[ She may not ask for it. Not for a while. Or maybe she will ask tomorrow, once she's slept. For now, Ciri feels somehow... if not quite better, then at least a little calmer, more grounded, knowing that Jaskier will help her share this burden. A safe place to keep this piece of her heart, tucked away in his notebook.

The suggestions make her smile. A little wan and watery, but not feigned. ]

Not this time. [ She's done plenty of that the last few days.

Now that the anger has faded and Ciri has accepted that Alina is gone, that she won't be going after her, all she feels is tired. Beneath all that, the desperation to find Geralt that had been eating at her has settled too, from a lightning hum under her skin to a weary weight inside her bones. She's spent all night in a cell. She's screamed and cried enough. She doesn't want to go back out there now. ]

Play a game of cards with me. Tell me of your exploits in the realm of bakery, and of the songs you're working on. Perhaps a few of those rude rhymes are in order, after all.

[cointosser]

Not this time, she says. Really?

[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.

[wiedzminka]

[ They pull apart, but comfortably. Jaskier goes to finish taking care of the bread she'd distracted him from, and Ciri stands to get a fire going in the hearth. It's not really cold (only gets cold at night, and only recently), but there's something about the crackle and warmth of it that is still comforting. She pours more ale and plucks an apple from a bowl at the table to cut it as she listens, more for something to give her hands to do than anything else. It would do them both good to eat something, besides. ]

That little raven must be very loved. He is fed and cared for, with a family to keep him safe.

But you should be more mindful of his feelings, Jaskier. If you sing to him of being such a useless mouth to feed, he may stop eating, and you'll make his family sad.

I'm sure he wishes he could do more to be of use to them.

[cointosser]

[Everyone is clearly a critic, even his niece. Still, he huffs a pleased little laugh at her, prodding his bread with a poker because he's naught else to do until it puffs up into a golden loaf.]

We should all be so lucky. [His tone, for the moment, doesn't match that huff of a laugh. Yes. What they all wouldn't do to be loved, and cared for, with a family? It's at no one in particular, really. Perhaps an old, foggy memory of his father in Lettenhove. An old professor he recalls with the most scathing sort of tone when he managed to spit out Pankratz.

Jaskier leans against the counter, and crosses his arms across his chest.]

Well, Ciri, I think there are plenty of us -- little ravens included -- that find a sort of comfort in knowing their own uselessness. Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Or a villain.

[wiedzminka]

[ The knife stills in Ciri's hand. She looks up, watching Jaskier with a quiet, contemplative expression, a faint crease between her brows.

Then Ciri looks down again, meticulously slicing the apple into even pieces and lining them up on the table in neat little half-moons with the ends reaching up. ]

It all depends on one's idea of what is worthwhile. Useful. And to whom.

[cointosser]

[Ooh, he doesn't like that. He was not, of course, speaking of himself. Of course not. He's as much like a bird as he's like a... a banana. Not the same thing, at all, in any way.

He doesn't meet her gaze, preoccupied with looking at his nails. And to think, all he'd wanted to do was play a cute snippet for her.

This is why he should keep the animal poems to himself.]

I'm quite sure those terms are universal. [He drops his hand, clipping a bit of lose skin from a cuticle.] Ah, you know, there's an idea. Apple bread. Oh, with a dusting of cinnamon. Something sweet to combat all this bloody ale we're drinking all the time.

[wiedzminka]

Shall I slice them thinner?

[ Ciri offers without missing a beat, cocking her head slightly to watch him out of the corner of her eye without looking over entirely.

A pang of guilt twinges in her heart, seeing him withdrawing again. He'd only meant to cheer her up, to share something he'd written. But he gives himself away with the words he chooses, and it--

It bothers her.

Maybe it's selfish. It's probably selfish. (Is it selfish to think he is not useless, if only because he keeps her occupied with thoughts other than single-minded revenge?) Or maybe she's just projecting. ]

[cointosser]

On the other hand, [He continues, as if in answer to her question,] I’m not so sure everyone isn’t bloody sick of bread. I think Rinwell and Hector are becoming desperate in their attempt to find a sustainable soup-to-bread ratio.

[And no one has had the gall to bring up the stressed bread making to his face, which is why he loves both and will die for them.

And for Ciri, of course. He has quiet songs too, that he keeps to himself, that perhaps only Geralt has ever heard him hum, of this girl that came from nowhere, from a woman’s womb he met decades ago and only once, and how improbably and easily she fell into his heart.

Not like it was Destiny. Nothing so convoluted. Only as if she fit perfectly in this shape it had been missing. Wistful songs of love’s power to choke even Destiny. Sorry songs of burden and freedom.

Some people keep journals. He keeps his songs. Though at this rate, he should be far more careful with them.

He claps his hands together, as if the drop in their conversation never happened.] Cake! That’s it! I can manage cake. Apple cake. And some sort of… you know, like a glaze? Oh, gods, I’m starting to sound like Alucard. [Now that he has reignited that mood, the reminder he was here to help Ciri forget her wounds, if only for a moment, it is much simpler to cling onto it.]

Yes, cut a few thinner, if you don’t mind. I know you mentioned cards, but how about you help me a spell? Then you can lose terribly to my strategic card-playing because I am, of course, a genius.

[And not deflecting. Like, at all.]

[wiedzminka]

[ With an exhale that might almost pass for a laugh, Ciri decides to let it be.

There is too much to think about. Purpose and practicality. Family and fear. Heroes, villains, destiny and dough.

It is easier to pretend she believes Jaskier, and simply help him make a cake. Ciri hasn't baked anything in-- a very long time, she can't even recall. There is something to be said about the fact that she is the one wielding the knife, destroying a thing in its current form so Jaskier can create it, more than a sum of the parts she takes apart. Whatever that something is, though, Ciri has not the words nor the energy to release it yet.

But she can do as Jaskier requests. And she can help make something new, even if this is all she knows: the knife in her hands, precisely peeling and separating.

She smiles up at him. ]

I love cake. Just tell me how many you need.

...and I'll take that as a challenge. You know I'm not backing down now.

wrap it up here? :>

[cointosser]

Do you? [Of course, he has seen the level of enthusiasm in which she approaches sweet buns, which is only equal to his own, so perhaps that makes perfect sense in the end. It's simply nice to have someone around who appreciates the finer things. Jaskier can live off of rabbit stew the rest of his life, but he would suffer heavily without the inclusion of the most frivolous of foods. And drinks.] Then cake we shall have, my dear.

[He will hold onto that. That almost-laugh, the smile she gives him. It is not unburdened, by any means, but it is better than her anger, her detachment, and worst of all, the sadness. His heart breaks for her -- perhaps it breaks for himself, even, as it struggles to hold both of them up together.

He scoops her cut apples into a bowl, pushing it towards her with a bag of sugar. If she is to help, she will have hands as messy as his own. For once, sticky with something that isn't ichor or blood.] There is not a chance you'll ever beat me, princess.

perfect <3

[wiedzminka]

[ It is easy to see why Jaskier has taken up this baking as a point to focus on when everything else feels like the walls closing in. It is a methodical thing, and it takes precision and focus just enough to let the mind rest, without being a burden in itself. For her, it is simply a matter of letting him teach her, following his instructions.

The gentle teasing leads again, eventually, to a joke or two. A lighter smile. Hands covered in sugar and spices. He shows her how to arrange and mix what is needed, how it all fits into what it will be, how to shape and bake it. How to accept that, for now, this is what either of them can do, and there's a comfort in the simplicity of understanding that too.

They bake a cake together. It is enough. ]