[He waves a hand. Clearly they have not gone into this conversation deep enough with each other, Geralt and Alucard.] Semantics, to be sure, when one is turned into one young enough. But like you said, that is Geralt's story to tell. Not mine.
[And dare he look sullen for a moment, when he recalls it. That basement in Kaer Morhen, so sure he was that it should've been locked. The bloodied beds. The emptied needles. Bottles of parts, both familiar and unfamiliar, floating about in liquid. The small, child-sized beds.
Everyone knows Witchers are taken young. Plenty know that most of them die, too, in the process. It's --
He rubs his face to wipe away the expression, the memory. Jaskier has done his best to ignore it exists at all.]
How fast? Very well! I'll have you know, we practically made a sport of horse racing when I was young. [With rather conservatively bred horses, too. None of them had horns, regrettably. He thinks it's rather fair a horse have a way to defend itself outside a few well-placed kicks. Jaskier gives his horse a bit of a rub on the neck, stretching the path ahead of them long enough it disappears into the horizon.
Plenty of room. He gives the horse the signal, and they take off. Fast. Faster. And the speed only increases as Jaskier grips the saddle's horn, realizing that --
Oh. Fuck. They are not slowing down. At all. In fact, the background is beginning to blur, and Jaskier's stomach has plummeted into his ass. He gives a yell as his hands slip, legs unable to hold onto the saddle, and the yell might be Alucard's name because he is not sure that the horse will fucking stop if he tries to jerk it --
And it doesn't. It blows up dirt with all four hooves and jumps, which is the perfect moment for the bard's hands tp lose their grip. He flips through the air, all of the Horizon blurring around him, and as time slows down he thinks, at least he's pretty sure he can't die if he breaks his neck.]
no subject
[And dare he look sullen for a moment, when he recalls it. That basement in Kaer Morhen, so sure he was that it should've been locked. The bloodied beds. The emptied needles. Bottles of parts, both familiar and unfamiliar, floating about in liquid. The small, child-sized beds.
Everyone knows Witchers are taken young. Plenty know that most of them die, too, in the process. It's --
He rubs his face to wipe away the expression, the memory. Jaskier has done his best to ignore it exists at all.]
How fast? Very well! I'll have you know, we practically made a sport of horse racing when I was young. [With rather conservatively bred horses, too. None of them had horns, regrettably. He thinks it's rather fair a horse have a way to defend itself outside a few well-placed kicks. Jaskier gives his horse a bit of a rub on the neck, stretching the path ahead of them long enough it disappears into the horizon.
Plenty of room. He gives the horse the signal, and they take off. Fast. Faster. And the speed only increases as Jaskier grips the saddle's horn, realizing that --
Oh. Fuck. They are not slowing down. At all. In fact, the background is beginning to blur, and Jaskier's stomach has plummeted into his ass. He gives a yell as his hands slip, legs unable to hold onto the saddle, and the yell might be Alucard's name because he is not sure that the horse will fucking stop if he tries to jerk it --
And it doesn't. It blows up dirt with all four hooves and jumps, which is the perfect moment for the bard's hands tp lose their grip. He flips through the air, all of the Horizon blurring around him, and as time slows down he thinks, at least he's pretty sure he can't die if he breaks his neck.]