[If it is strange for Geralt to linger around Moglad (and certainly it is), the moogle makes no indication of it. Geralt is more welcome in Jaskier's heart than most, after all. He has a place carved out here, permanently. It's in the smoky smell of the tavern, in the way Jaskier's music lingers in the corners. There are bits of monsters parts as trophies on the shelf between Theories on the Conjunction and The Baudy Six-Fingere Thief. A kikimore tooth there, a striga's lock of hair. They aren't trophies, really. Only bits of memories left behind. Stories solidified.
The moogle's head tilts.] What's that supposed to mean?
[The answer isn't immediately obvious to Moglad. He stares at the sword, paws now licked clean of any remnant of the honey candy. A sword? It can't be for him. He's a bard, after all. Jaskier has only barely been able to sing a few notes, though, and Moglad's afraid he may not even learn any new songs now. Except he'd heard Jaskier humming one under his breath, two bottles deep. The one he liked the most.
The wind doesn't cower to powerful men.
Moglad reaches for the sword with both paws and holds it. Awkward. Unsure. But somehow, in the way his pom straightens up, it looks like resolution.] If you get hurt, it's not my fault, kupo.
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The moogle's head tilts.] What's that supposed to mean?
[The answer isn't immediately obvious to Moglad. He stares at the sword, paws now licked clean of any remnant of the honey candy. A sword? It can't be for him. He's a bard, after all. Jaskier has only barely been able to sing a few notes, though, and Moglad's afraid he may not even learn any new songs now. Except he'd heard Jaskier humming one under his breath, two bottles deep. The one he liked the most.
The wind doesn't cower to powerful men.
Moglad reaches for the sword with both paws and holds it. Awkward. Unsure. But somehow, in the way his pom straightens up, it looks like resolution.] If you get hurt, it's not my fault, kupo.