[As much as Jaskier is finding his steps in attending to the cemetery, the request helps him find more solid ground. Such a simple request, yet it's. Purpose. Beyond what he's already found. Responsibility. A tiny, insignificant thing, but he holds onto it. It's harder than holding onto a bottle, but he needs that.
You hardly need buy me a hat. Of course I will.
But I won't say no.
He shouldn't. It's a free hat.
The week's changes are, perhaps, a bit more extensive than they should be. With Ciri and Geralt both out of Cadens, he's been left alone with Rinwell -- which isn't a complaint, necessarily, but he feels fucking weird being drunk around her, and morose, which is worse. He doesn't need to burden her with anything more when Cadens's attitude towards magic in general is enough of one.
So he's worked hard. The blackberry bushes that were dying around the outer wall of the cemetery are now rose bushes, ranging from a sunset orange to a blood red. And yes, several of the blossoms have carefully crafted ombre gradients spreading across their petals of yellow to orange to reds. Their roots are thick and strong; Yennefer's hand in restoring his magic lingers even now, after his infusion of new memories. Chaos thrives in him, as if making up for its absence.
Some of the more broken tombstones have vines gently wrapping around them, bursting with bold, blue roses, tight enough to hold them together from crumbling any further. And what once was still dirt between the graves is a rich grass, still spreading, dotted with dandelions.
Jaskier is bent over, trying to sway the sprout of an oak tree to grow a bit bigger, if only to shade a few whiny roses that have been coiling away from too much sunlight. But the tree is being quite stubborn, moving its branches but not growing any taller. The crunch of boots on gravel has him looking up, with a final You're not impressing anyone with this attitude towards the sprout.]
no subject
You hardly need buy me a hat. Of course I will.
But I won't say no.
He shouldn't. It's a free hat.
The week's changes are, perhaps, a bit more extensive than they should be. With Ciri and Geralt both out of Cadens, he's been left alone with Rinwell -- which isn't a complaint, necessarily, but he feels fucking weird being drunk around her, and morose, which is worse. He doesn't need to burden her with anything more when Cadens's attitude towards magic in general is enough of one.
So he's worked hard. The blackberry bushes that were dying around the outer wall of the cemetery are now rose bushes, ranging from a sunset orange to a blood red. And yes, several of the blossoms have carefully crafted ombre gradients spreading across their petals of yellow to orange to reds. Their roots are thick and strong; Yennefer's hand in restoring his magic lingers even now, after his infusion of new memories. Chaos thrives in him, as if making up for its absence.
Some of the more broken tombstones have vines gently wrapping around them, bursting with bold, blue roses, tight enough to hold them together from crumbling any further. And what once was still dirt between the graves is a rich grass, still spreading, dotted with dandelions.
Jaskier is bent over, trying to sway the sprout of an oak tree to grow a bit bigger, if only to shade a few whiny roses that have been coiling away from too much sunlight. But the tree is being quite stubborn, moving its branches but not growing any taller. The crunch of boots on gravel has him looking up, with a final You're not impressing anyone with this attitude towards the sprout.]
Ah, Alucard! Back already. How fares the hunt?