[ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again

[cointosser]

Who: Jaskier, Ciri, Geralt, Yennefer, Alucard, and some open prompts
When: Mid-to-Late January
Where: Cadens and the Horizon
What: Jaskier wakes from a vivid, nasty dream to physical evidence that it was unfortunately very real. He spirals, but like, only a little bit. It mostly involves getting drunk and buying hats to cope.
Warnings: Mentions of bodily injury/torture, maybe PTSD, heavy drinking



[Will be throwing starters (including open ones) down below! You can hit me up at scathefire or #scathefire6612 if you'd like to plot anything or want an additional starter. Also, let me know if you'd like me to avoid S2 spoilers, because there will be a lot.]

Comments

for Alucard [closed]

[cointosser]

[He has nowhere to go.

All right, that's not entirely fair. He has a home. With many wonderful people in it. People he should, predictably, be reaching out to, because that would absolutely make sense, wouldn't it? One leans on their friends in hard times, as he has had to even remind certain friends of his.

But how is he going to explain this? Geralt has already sent a message back. In one piece. Whatever the fuck that means. Of course Jaskier should've been far more precise in his question, and he wants to -- he wants to forget that, whatever that was, because dreams are frivolous, wanting things. Dreams are impossibilities. Dreams do not weave a year of time into a single night.

Dreams don't have you waking up with the warmth of fire on your fingertips. Dreams do not steal the embedded swirls of texture on your skin. And yet here he stands, with the bustling market of Cadens moving around him, and only a day has passed -- he checked with a passing shopper, if only to calm his frantic thoughts -- and he rubs the fingers of his right hand together, where scars now spread over their tips. They were not there yesterday. Not even ten or so hours ago.

Jaskier heaves a sigh as the purveyor in front of him grunts with annoyance. Are you going to buy anything, or just keep staring? Look, you even got coin, lad? Lad. Gods, he's being called a lad.]

I'm thinking. Mulling. Considering. Cogitating. Perhaps you've heard of it? [The hats on display in front of him have not moved nor changed in the long minutes he's been mulling. Hats are easy. Hats change a man, but often only in good ways.

Hats help a man process things. He ruminates further, sourly pondering whether he should ask for advice. My good man, what do you suggest for after you've held a human head in your hands? Have you ever seen someone get their face taken off by big, fangy teeth? What the color is of what is left behind? Do you think you have a hat to make me not remember the sight?

He scratches at the stubble on his chin.] Does this one come in black?

LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[cryptsleeper]

[Alucard's starting to near completion with restoring all of the gravestones in his little adopted plot of the land of the dead.

Alucard is starting to procrastinate in completing the restoration. When it's over, it's over. He'll be without work to keep his hands busy and his head occupied. Then what? He's yet to make progress on building his crypt properly (there's no money in working for that). He could try and help the other places of the dead with their work, but then he wouldn't be alone.

So Alucard is building more excuses into his daily routine. Trying to force himself to learn the ebbs and flows of what areas of the city as less crowed and when, because he may have to at some point. Anything so he can keep working.

--Jaskier?

Jaskier's a good way to avoid working. Something in the dhampir also suspects shopping with the man is a several hour affair. He could be wrong, but--]

Hats?

[Alucard approaches from the right, although true to his nature he moves quietly. His eyes go from Jaskier to the hat in question, then back to the bard.]

[cointosser]

[Alucard isn't wrong. He's already been here an hour, or an hour-ish, and even if it's a bit early, time is a meaningless concept and he's already gone through about half a bottle of wine. At some point. A very lucky thing that had so much at home already. Wine and shopping. What better way to deal with the very state of one's world and mental capacities?

He flinches as he hears his own name, drawn out of his reverie. He blinks, several times, staring at Alucard. Obviously he knows quite well who this man is, remembers clearly every moment they've spent together. But there, then, he had never thought of this place. Never recalled an Abraxas. And especially did not think, ah, if only my dhamphir friend was here, this man would be just a big meaty blob in the middle of a swarm of bats.

Do bats eat people like that? It doesn't matter.]

Oh. Oh, yes. Hats. [If Alucard peers long enough at his face, there is a sense of lingering alarm that is not shaking off as it should. For fuck's sake. He'd barely grasped the missing year between he and Geralt when they first arrived here.

Well, whoopty-fucking-do. He's found his missing year, and it sucks. The moment of silence passes so long that Jaskier can even feel the discomfort coming from the hat's crafter. He looks between the offering, and Alucard, and picks it up. It's only then, as his fingers slide along its leather edge, he realizes he can only barely feel it. On those fingers.] What's wrong with it? I can pull off black. And hats.

[cryptsleeper]

I'm not sure of the styling on the brim. It seems...[Impractical is not a word that Alucard suspects works on Jaskier.] At the wrong angle, it could be unflattering.

[Nailed it.

But Alucard isn't an idiot. He catches that little undercurrent of alarm. That's new, and on Jaskier's face, it does not feel correct. The bard is many things, but inclined towards actual alarm? That is Alucard's job and nature of his depression, thank you very much.

Far be it from him to be territorial and unproductive though. Alucard's eyes move off of Jaskier and beyond, considering some of the other hats. There's more than enough options, but--

--ah. Similar style. Full brim, and likely to be good in the actual desert as well if such a journey happens. He points.]

Compare it against that one.

for Geralt [closed]

[cointosser]

[In one piece is all the answer Geralt gave him in response to his hurried, scrawled question, and it's not enough, but Jaskier has to accept it is enough. He only gives back a right, thanks and proceeds to do exactly the opposite of what he said he would do.

He does not forget about the dream... the nightmare. Because he cannot.

Not when there is evidence of it. The same fingers. And later, in the bath, these small notches of scarred skin across his body. The ache of bruises that no longer color him. The very real, remembered taste of blood in his mouth. Cut gums, sliced tongue. A single snap in the dark.

There are plenty of healthy ways to deal with this. However, they are expensive, and drink is cheap when you're a bard with a reputation. After a night spend schmoozing with pretty barmaids and one particular hulk of a -- er, he said he was a barber, right? -- Jaskier has managed to spend only a little of his own coin on wine, which still sloshes a bit in the bottle he's snatched on his way out of the tavern. His boots trudge through Cadens's familiar streets. Not a single thing has changed. Not a single, solitary, fucking thing, except three fingertips and --

And the entire fucking Continent?

He sings under his breath as he stumbles home, something that sounds like What for do you yeaaarn? over and over, and honestly, what a good fucking song. At least he can take that with him.

He's still got it.

He trips on a rock, or perhaps nothing at all, and the wine bottle falls from his hands and spills into the dirt. Jaskier stares at it, swaying a little, only a few bare moments from walking into his own home.] You fucker. You absolute fucker. We had -- we had maybe, like, a minute to go, and you've gone and fucked it all up. Well, if you think I'm above sucking you out of the ground like a fly on a rotting orange, you've another thing coming.

[gynvael]

[ He's so tired of his head getting fucked with. Old memories surfacing; new ones overflowing. They seep into every crevice, and part of him instinctively wants to reject the intrusion. It's not real.

He knows better.

Once he is certain Ciri will remain in the city for now, while he figures this out, he retreats to where it's most quiet. Closes his eyes; tries to think. To sort through every thread so he can decide where he needs to start first. He's already spoken to Ciri. It might be worthwhile to ask if Sam's heard of this happening or anything similar. There's—

Yennefer. Across the world. He will take care of that, too, but not now. Ciri will be safe here, in another city. That'll give him time to consider what he wants to do. It's not a decision he wants to make in haste.

That leaves Jaskier. Jaskier, he does need to speak to sooner rather than later. He knows Jaskier experienced what he did—Ciri confirmed as much—and that means...

He waits for Jaskier outside their home. Can hear him coming a mile away, the bottle that tumbles to the ground. Geralt sighs. So about what he's expected then. Can't blame the man, but. Fuck. So much for rest and restoration.

He picks up the bottle and reaches a hand out to steady his friend. ] No one's sucking anything. Come inside.

[cointosser]

[Jaskier is somewhere between figuring out how to kneel down and get the bottle without falling over and perhaps estimating how much is actually drinkable when a hand jerks out and take the bottle from him. Even if he had not quite reached for it yet.]

I don't need --

[It comes second later. This curl of unease, a shiver down his back. He is slow as he lifts his eyes, meeting his.]

Geralt. [His voice immediately goes quiet, the wind knocked out of him. Even drink cannot hide the squeeze inside his chest, the pain in it. The recall he has of the moment where he watched his friend disappear, and thought, They aren't coming back.

He swallows, wavering.] You're back from your hunt.

[gynvael]

[ His brows are drawn together. He knows that look. He knows it because—

He remembers it now. Even if he has been here the whole time, has not set foot in an Oxenfurt jail cell in these past six, seven months. He remembers. That's what it feels like, that's what throws him off constantly. It isn't a prophecy, it is not...dreams. It's a memory. The difference is important. He's been taught not to mistake planted thoughts, visions, from what's real, and this is not that. He feels it. How the pieces fit and fall into place, without the murky edges that come with a dream or a woven illusion. ]

I rode back as soon as I could. [ He studies Jaskier for a second longer before he opens the door. Steps inside, to find it fortunately empty for once. The two of them alone. ] I spoke to Ciri, too.

[ I felt it, too. The question is, how? Why now? What does it mean that this happened? And have they been the first? Not many have a source to confirm the truth like he does with Ciri. It's possible that in others, they dismissed what they experienced as a nightmare, a trick of magic. ]

for Ciri [closed]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier wakes with the very intense urge to vomit.

It's only luck that has Geralt out of Cadens on another hunt. Only luck that leaves him alone in the bed they sometimes share. He stumbles out of it, caught on a sheet, his heart beating so loudly in his ears it's all he can hear. (The crashing of tables, the howl of cutting wind. An old woman's voice creaking as trees do in a storm.)

It isn't real. It's dreams. You've had dreams for years, you absolute --

He looks down to where his hand grips his knee, nails digging in. His right hand. (The sound of burning flesh, the stink of it. Nothing compares to it. Nothing reeks quite like it.) It isn't real. He can hear his mother's voice, gentle and reprimanding. Dreams cannot hurt you.

He turns his right hand over.

The fingertips bubble out unnaturally, the pads of the tips pale caps of scar tissue. Shall we try a different technique?

He rushes to their washroom just in time to purge last night's lovely little dinner.

Jaskier does it before he's ever really considered not, once he's washed his face and gargled several glasses of water. He reaches for Ciri. He -- he simply needs confirmation. None of this is real. He's a wonderful imagination. So much so that even a nightmare can be a haunting, real thing.

She can't -- she can't remember these things, too. Can she? For fuck's sake, Jaskier can barely parse this out himself. What this is. What he is -- who he's become.

The message scrawls itself out shakily, but at least he still manages the lovely curves in his letters.

Ah, hello Ciri. Only a quick question. I was -- hah, I was reading this book, you know, of curses and things, for a bit of inspiration. Nothing too interesting, but I had a question, of no real import, and -- anyway, have you ever been possessed? Merely curious.

Ah, yes. There is no way this will lead to further questions. Only a writer searching up some inspiration. The medieval equivalent of an unerased Google search.]

[wiedzminka]

[ Of all the questions or requests Ciri might have expected Jaskier to have for her on an otherwise unremarkable morning in Cadens, that was never one she possibly could have expected. She nearly drops the apple she'd been enjoying. In the end, she's not so much enjoying it anymore as she is just finishing it out of obligation, while turning around and quickly heading back the way she'd come down the road. Back to the apartment. ]

What kind of book?

[ She has no idea what prompted this. But she has a very bad feeling, and walking faster doesn't chase it away. ]

[cointosser]

[Whhhhy does everyone ask so many questions? Actually, it's Ciri who does this. Geralt just ignores him. Not that being ignored would help him at all right now, but it's easier than stumbling as he is.]

Wh -- what do you mean, what kind of book? The kind with words. I -- I read, thank you, sometimes. A lot. I mean, you needn't answer. It's. I was only curious. I thought, you know, since weird things are always happening around us, I thought, maybe, at least one of us has been possessed before. Because that is a thing. That happens. Sometimes.

[wiedzminka]

[ She's quick. Only a minute or two away now. She hadn't gotten far, thankfully. ]

You've been struck with remarkably specific curiosity. What kind of poem or ballad are you researching for?

[ She unlocks the back entrance to the shop they're renting from, climbing up the narrow stairs. ]

OPEN [Cadens]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier's really going through it. No one can tell, of course, because he's very good at pretending everything is all right, even when frequently sticking to the back corners of taverns to drink, even when he's failed to bring a razor to his face for a few too many days, when he's taken to staring at his fingers propped up on the table in front of him between a half-consumed pint of mead with watery blue eyes.

He has a new hat, though. So that's a plus.

Jaskier is still rather easy to approach in a low-lit tavern, with an unlit candle melted into his table half-slumped in his seat. Between large gulps of wine or ale or mead (they all sort of blend together after enough time), one might even catch him stumbling onto the stage with a shitty lute that he hates to belt out a still near-perfect rendition of a rather bitter song that still hits. Though perhaps the feelings that prompted its writing do not linger as much as they had once, it's the perfect meeting of energy and bitterness that... you know, it feels particularly good right now.]

[petcromancer]

[Hector maybe takes a few days to notice Jaskier's downward spiral. He keeps himself busy, and he's pulled enough all-nighters that he doesn't judge another man for a day or two of missed shaves.

Maybe he's a terrible boyfriend, but he's still pretty new at all this. About caring about people.

Anyways, watching Jaskier perform is something he's started carving out room in his schedule for, and on this particular evening, he's put down his research on Thornean mind-magic and come here to clear his mind.

He waits until the song is done before he seeks out the bard.]

That's a new one. Is there someone I need to be worried about?

[cointosser]

[See, he likes to think he's done a rather good job of -- er, not hiding it, exactly, but making himself scarce. Unfortunately, doing so is only making more of a mark that something is clearly. Different.

Perhaps playing Burn is not... the most subtle thing he could've done. But gods, the energy of it. He needs that.

What he does not need is Hector -- fucking, how could he forget Hector? -- startling him, because he is not used to it. For so long, no one sought him out. Not as Jaskier.

He holds a hand over his heart, smoothing down his ruffled chemise.] Ah, Hector! It's -- no, no, of course not. [Oh, fuck. That sounds suspicious. And it's so far from the real problem.] It's... nothing. Just a spot of heartbreak in the past I was. Mulling over. [Without a pause, and perhaps with a hint of wine to his breath, he takes Hector by the shoulders. Oh. Lovely and real. Still very well muscled under those clothes.] It feels like ages since I've seen you.

[His words are quiet. Like a year and then some, and yet -- no time has really passed, has it?]

[petcromancer]

[Jaskier has this nervous habit, where he says more words to say less things. It is not smooth.

Hector frowns. From his perspective, no time has passed, so he's got no context with which to read Jaskier's sudden dwelling on some past dalliance gone wrong.]

...is there any reason it's been on your mind?

[falcony]

[ it's a few days before sam decides he can't wait any longer. geralt had told him a little about what happened, more so in the sense if sam had heard anything about it happening before. a dream, but not quite a dream. he could tell there was more going on there, if only by how distant geralt was when asked, but sam figures it's one of those things they'll get to (hopefully) with time, so he doesn't push.

what sam struggles with, he finds, is where it concerns jaskier. a worry that sparks when geralt asks, and that continues to simmer the longer he goes without hearing from him. yes, he understands that in the grand scheme of things, a few days isn't enough to call in the cavalry, maybe, and sam knows that jaskier is safe and alive and okay, by geralt terms, but sam could pick up on the pause. could see there is something a little more to 'okay'.

it doesn't take a master detective to figure out which tavern jaskier's been frequenting, and when sam arrives he finds jaskier in (what the bartender tells him, as he gets a drink) his usual corner. still, there is something off about it. about the slant to jaskier's shoulders and the way he's staring, distantly, at his fingertips. so much that he doesn't notice sam's approach, and probably doesn't until sam is sliding into the spot on the bench directly next to him - close, close enough that his thigh's pressed up against jaskier's and their shoulders just nearly knock. the proximity is something the two of them know well, if only for how that had been a cornerstone of their friendship. jaskier, who had always sought out physical affection, and sam, who had always been happy to provide.

sam sets another mug of cider in front of jaskier - an offering - as he leans in, his tone light and friendly, despite the obvious mood. ]

Hat's new. I like it.

[cointosser]

[It is the bump of shoulders that wakes him up; all at once it's so quietly familiar, pulling him out of. Thoughts. Memories. Jaskier blinks, and his body uncurls from how tightly wound it'd been, though not fully relaxed. That was one calls a spiral. So much so that he didn't even notice someone approaching.

It was that easy. It's exactly that sort of thing that gets a man taken by surprise.

Here, with the bulk of Sam pressing against him, a wall on his other side, it feels strangely. Safe. Compared to his other company, Jaskier manages a smile this time to greet him.]

Fetching, I've been told. On me, of course. I'm not sure you've the face for hats. [Immediately pulling for humor, as he does. He already knows Sam's going to know. He always seems to.] Please don't tell me Geralt sent you after me. No, no. [He's already pulling the mug of cider over, interrupting himself with a held up hand and a solid gulp of it.] He wouldn't. That would take a bit too much care on his part. No, I'm betting he's told you something, and you caught on, and then he said something about how I was fine or I'll get through it.

[His voice noticeably gets deeper at the words, as if impersonating their speaker. It's not even a guess. He already knows.]

OPEN [Horizon]

[cointosser]

[It's not entirely conscious that this change has come about. When Jaskier is tired of being drunk and awake -- both things that have already become quite a chore -- he decides that, yes, being elsewhere, where dreams and memories and thoughts cannot quite attack him as terribly is in order.

Unfortunately, his... his whatever, his psyche perhaps, has decided otherwise. He walks into a vineyard with his grapevines turned brown and crisp under a sun that has grown too harsh. His horses are gone. The ones that pulled his caravan across the entire Horizon. In the distance, he sees two pairs of red eyes watching him. Ah. Radu and Dănești. At least someone still finds his domain suits.

Jaskier sighs. The vineyard vanishes between one breath and the next, and all that is left is. Nothing.

What does he want? He's not even sure anymore. It sort of builds itself, crafted from the memories he came here to get farther from. The Horizon seems to know what it wants to be. What a man looks for when he thinks of home.

Not necessarily always a place of safety. But a place of meaning, of work. Of change.

He almost laughs at the name. Yes. Yes, that is what he'd name it. And as the domain works out itself, as it decides (and he decides) what it must be now, he is relieved to see that those gifts he held so dear are still here. They find their own rightful place, safe. And then the creatures. Alucard's two horses approach him as the night takes on a twilight darkness, snuffling into his hands and nipping at his fingertips. With a shrieking cry, the goldfinch rests on top of the tavern, nesting itself in the crooks of the roof.

Jaskier opens the door, stepping inside to a warmly lit tavern. No one else is here, but the sounds of low murmuring, laughing, of clinking glasses reverberates. And there, on the counter, is Moglad. Jaskier closes his arms tightly around his apprentice.]

My boy. What it means to see you again.

[Moglad looks as bright as ever as he takes a bow. I promised by my pom I would stay! ]

And so you have.

[With time, Jaskier settles into this new, heavier domain. The sky always seems a bit darker than usual, but he attributes it to wanting his horses time to roam more than anything. The streets build themselves, cobblestone by cobblestone, but they remain rather clean of debris, of rats. It has that smell, though. Guaranteed Oxenfurt smell. Fish and salt water and horses. Lovely.

By the time anyone stumbles into it, Jaskier has taken to laying across the bar, occasionally a table, with a glass of liquor beside him. Moglad flutters around as if looking for something to do, unsure of himself. And gradually, the tavern fills with the shadows of bodies. Of company. Of an audience, an adoring one, if only he had the energy to sing.]

[nadine_he_loves]

[In the wake of Susan's vanishing, Nadine has - mostly - been keeping to herself. A slow slide that started months ago suddenly picked up speed, and she's found herself in a malaise she can't easily shake herself from or hide. It's not something she's talked about - Lloyd, sweet as he is, isn't the best for feelings talk, and Julie's still giving the cold shoulder. It doesn't really matter, it's not like anyone wants to listen to her whining anyway. Shit happens. It sucks, you deal with it, you move on.

But it's difficult to move on without distraction, and sorting ingredients, mixing potions and tonics and elixirs, it only works for so long. She needs something to banish the constant swirl of dark thoughts, at least for a little while.

Which is why she's settled into bed early for a visit to the Horizon. There might be distraction there, real distraction. Jaskier's wandered into her domain on more than one occasion, it's high time she returned the favor. From past experience, he serves as a very good distraction. He does seem to genuinely like her, so it isn't even as though she's using him, really.

She reaches what she thinks must be his domain...but what greets her isn't what she's expecting. He'd talked of vineyards and beautiful scenery and this...well, this looks - and smells - like Nott, honestly. The scent of fish, the cobbles, the tavern... Is this the wrong place?

Frowning slightly, she approaches the tavern. There's light inside, and it sounds occupied. She pulls down the black hood of her coat and pushes the door open, cautious, the mystery of this domain already taking priority in her mind.]

...Jaskier?

[Apparently this is the right place, there he is. But something still seems wrong - moreso, at the sight of him. Is he drunk?]

[cointosser]

[Yeah. He's drunk.

Truthfully, when he first laid down, he wasn't thinking of company. Who would come here outside of the elves that must? But the elves are not here. And neither is he. He left. Left the name of the Sandpiper behind; left the one place he had offered anything to anyone. He --

He hears a voice, lifting up on his elbows.] Oh. Oh, fuck --

[The door opens to Jaskier nearly falling off the counter as he tries to sit up, wine coating his throat. He swings his legs down, Moglad holding the back of his dark red coat (he paid a shitload for it, and he'll have it here again, thank you) with his wings flapping as hard as they can so Jaskier doesn't fall flat on his face. He steadies himself, clearing his throat.] Nadine. [He chokes on the word.] Nadine, hello. Er -- how are you?

[It feels so distant, since last he saw her, he forgets what he promised was a lovely view of Toussaint, his vineyard in the hills... not a smoky tavern on the edge of Oxenfurt.]

[fourarmedandangerous]

Goro has taken to spending his time in the Horizon not enjoying the comforts of his own domain, but since his own plans are advancing thanks to a rather fruitful discussion with the Prime Minister, taking stock of the others who share that space. As his discussion with the Thornean sorcerer Strange demonstrated, exploring other domains can be useful in determining the character of his flow Summoned. Goro is not popular with them. He knows this and does not care, so it pays to find out more about those who will, sooner or later want to "deal with him" as Estinien so aptly put it.

The door to the tavern does not bar him, and so Goro steps in, floorboards creaking under his weight. His attention is immediately attracted to the bar, and so completely misses Jaskier sprawled out on a table near the back.

Well, might as well avail himself of whatever spirits are available. Some of them might even be worthwhile. In the Horizon, who knows?

He strides across the tavern floor, stepping behind the bar to examine the liqours available. A massive hand takes one, uncorks it and Goro knocks it back.

He's barely managed a taste before he withdraws the bottle, and let's it drop to the floor with a crash. "Nnnh. Weak." The owner can surely summon up more later. It's no bother.

Maybe the next bottle.

[cointosser]

[Jaskier opens his eyes to the floor underneath his table vibrating, which is very disorienting, by the way, when you're three bottles in. He looks up to see the chandelier is swaying back and forth, and there's this soft, pathetic little whimpering noise that, as he raises to sit up, he realizes is coming from Moglad. Moglad, who is hiding underneath a table with his paws over his head.]

Is the earth cracking, Moglad? [He asks, pushing himself to his feet with an annoyed grunt. In the fucking Horizon? Well, it's just his luck. He's only built the place, might as well crack it in half or something --

He turns around, just barely ducking out of Lukasz's snap at his hair, to.

What he's pretty sure is some sort of living wall of muscle and. Arms. Oh, those are arms. Is his vision blurring? Yes. It must be. Considering the number of them.

He flinches and Moglad lets out a tiny kupooooo... Wonderful. Now there's glass all over his floor. Wonderful.]

Well. By all means, help yourself. [He rubs his eyes. No, there's definitely still too many arms.] If you're going to take my drink, the least you can do is not smash the bottles all over the bloody floor. What, were you raised in a barn?

[londonbound]

[ Rhy looks for the vineyard. Instead, he finds a city street. And a tavern.

He hesitates. This is the same place, he's certain of that despite how strange it felt to have memories of a time he'd had no memories. But he'd definitely been in this part of the Horizon, and he'd definitely met this man. It's been some time, but he'd just wanted--

What? To make sure it was real?

It's so different now, it doesn't make Rhy feel any more certain. ]

Hello?

[ He pushes the door open, peering inside tentatively. Normally, Rhy is a big fan of taverns. But it just feels... off. Of course, there's no guarantee anyone will be here even if it is the right place. He could leave a note or something. He hasn't thought that far ahead. ]

[cointosser]

[Like all investigators into Jaskier's domain now, the two horses track Rhy's steps into the streets, snorting and moving together to spy on him. They may not be close, but Jaskier still thinks of Rhy's last visit fondly, so the horses only watch.

Moglad perks up when the door opens, his pom glowing bright.]

Hello, Rhy! Are you here to see Jaskier? Hold on, hold on! I'll drag him out for you, kupo.

[The dragging may be a little more literal than it should be. Moglad goes to a door that leads down into the basement, fluttering hard as he returns with the back of Jaskier's coat caught in both his paws. His eyes are red, and he may be a little drunk, but... Rhy's caught him at a good time. Sort of. It's much less drunk than he's been before.]

Hello? [He blinks, rubbing his eyes. Oh. Oh! Gods, that had not been so long ago, but it feels. So long.] Rhy! My friend, what brings you here? I -- right, sorry. Things have. Changed a bit. On their own, I'm afraid.