He's got toes! They're the same thing. [Which he's now using to scoop out meat from the bowl once his beak can't reach the little bits at the bottom, and in some ways he does it very much like it's a hand, which is a bit creepy if Jaskier watches it too closely. So he doesn't.
He made his first mistake attempting to pet Mog's head the first week when he was gobbling down a lizard. Now he firmly leaves the gryphon alone, especially because he enjoys the cuddling after meals.
His heart has been made gentle again for the company of the gryphon. Mog sleeps on his head or at his feet, biting his toes when he jerks awake at a nightmare. He does not appreciate the bitinng -- his beak is fucking sharp, by the way -- but that snap always brings him back to the current moment. To this home.
Jaskier takes his skewer, twisting it as it dribbles juice into the sand, steam curling up in gentle wafts. He blows on it, lute safely set aside from both gryphon and wind-swept meat droplets.
It's quiet out here. Much more than the forests they often traversed. Even more so than the mountains, always full of the whistle of wind between the peaks.]
Do you like it here? [He asks it out of the blue, tilting his head back to look up at the night sky. He was not a master of astronomy, but it feels like the stars are different. He cannot find familiar constellations.] I mean, when you think about it seriously. Will you enjoy your life here, on this sphere? Ever since the mountain -- I'm not bringing it up to be angry, don't worry -- I would think of what you were doing. I always imagined you went right back to hunting, like nothing had changed. [He pulls a piece from the skewer, quietly laughing once.] I suppose you have here, too. Hunting and the random delivery now.
no subject
He made his first mistake attempting to pet Mog's head the first week when he was gobbling down a lizard. Now he firmly leaves the gryphon alone, especially because he enjoys the cuddling after meals.
His heart has been made gentle again for the company of the gryphon. Mog sleeps on his head or at his feet, biting his toes when he jerks awake at a nightmare. He does not appreciate the bitinng -- his beak is fucking sharp, by the way -- but that snap always brings him back to the current moment. To this home.
Jaskier takes his skewer, twisting it as it dribbles juice into the sand, steam curling up in gentle wafts. He blows on it, lute safely set aside from both gryphon and wind-swept meat droplets.
It's quiet out here. Much more than the forests they often traversed. Even more so than the mountains, always full of the whistle of wind between the peaks.]
Do you like it here? [He asks it out of the blue, tilting his head back to look up at the night sky. He was not a master of astronomy, but it feels like the stars are different. He cannot find familiar constellations.] I mean, when you think about it seriously. Will you enjoy your life here, on this sphere? Ever since the mountain -- I'm not bringing it up to be angry, don't worry -- I would think of what you were doing. I always imagined you went right back to hunting, like nothing had changed. [He pulls a piece from the skewer, quietly laughing once.] I suppose you have here, too. Hunting and the random delivery now.