[His tone is both curious and careful. He clearly is. But when Moglad turns to him, he sees something bright in the moogle's expression that relaxes him, even though some part of him is tense, uneasy, at Geralt being here. Here without him, even. In this tavern in Oxenfurt, far too close to the very thing he is trying to avoid.
He does not think about his blood soaked into the floorboards underneath his boots. The chair where he thrashed.
He's thinking of it --
Moglad invades his space, spinning around his head as he shows off the wooden sword with the notches chipped into it where he must have hit something harder than a dummy. We're practicing! I'll show you my moves, Jaskier!
And so he does. As if the moogle knows exactly where Jaskier's thoughts were going, he begins thrusting, parrying, and slashing at the dummy. Occasionally the sword goes off balance and bounces against the table, or Moglad drops too low and loses his momentum, but it's. It's not what he thought the creature capable of, really, when he said he wanted to be an apprentice to a bard.
Now? Has the Witcher come by to steal his apprentice?] I'm far from a swordsmaster, Moglad, but they're very impressive.
[He gives him a pat on his pom, and a smile that is genuine than most these days. The moogle isn't drunk, either, which he's sort of -- he noticed it weeks ago, apparently when it was relevant.
Jaskier turns to Geralt, still a bit thrown off by this.] So you invade my domain to steal my drink and my moogle? I never thought you capable of such dastardly dealings, Geralt. It's almost nosy of you.
[Says the man who tumbled into Geralt's locked basement door. That was different. He was desperate.]
no subject
[His tone is both curious and careful. He clearly is. But when Moglad turns to him, he sees something bright in the moogle's expression that relaxes him, even though some part of him is tense, uneasy, at Geralt being here. Here without him, even. In this tavern in Oxenfurt, far too close to the very thing he is trying to avoid.
He does not think about his blood soaked into the floorboards underneath his boots. The chair where he thrashed.
He's thinking of it --
Moglad invades his space, spinning around his head as he shows off the wooden sword with the notches chipped into it where he must have hit something harder than a dummy. We're practicing! I'll show you my moves, Jaskier!
And so he does. As if the moogle knows exactly where Jaskier's thoughts were going, he begins thrusting, parrying, and slashing at the dummy. Occasionally the sword goes off balance and bounces against the table, or Moglad drops too low and loses his momentum, but it's. It's not what he thought the creature capable of, really, when he said he wanted to be an apprentice to a bard.
Now? Has the Witcher come by to steal his apprentice?] I'm far from a swordsmaster, Moglad, but they're very impressive.
[He gives him a pat on his pom, and a smile that is genuine than most these days. The moogle isn't drunk, either, which he's sort of -- he noticed it weeks ago, apparently when it was relevant.
Jaskier turns to Geralt, still a bit thrown off by this.] So you invade my domain to steal my drink and my moogle? I never thought you capable of such dastardly dealings, Geralt. It's almost nosy of you.
[Says the man who tumbled into Geralt's locked basement door. That was different. He was desperate.]