[Jaskier listens in silence. His fingers rest over the lute's strings, still, his eyes on the stars above. He stretches his legs out. It is the kind of night, he thinks, where he could lay out here forever. A full stomach, a crackling fire. The slight whistle of a snore that comes from Mog's beak.
Geralt's low, deep voice rolling in the air between them.]
The older I get, the more I think finding satisfaction in what we manage to accomplish is the only true path to serenity. [He says it in answer, unsurprised, in some way, to hear the answer. Jaskier still has itching in his body, in his bones, that demands he leave home and travel into the depths of the desert, the forests beyond, towards even the ocean he knows exists only from maps. He has yet to see it with his own eyes, and the idea of never seeing it bears down on him like a beast.]
I'm not here to tell you what will make you happy, my friend. If it is the Path and hunting, who am I to say otherwise? [He plucks a string, finding a new song.] My only hope is that you are happy. In the end. By the time I'm gone, at the very least. I don't know a man who deserves it more.
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Geralt's low, deep voice rolling in the air between them.]
The older I get, the more I think finding satisfaction in what we manage to accomplish is the only true path to serenity. [He says it in answer, unsurprised, in some way, to hear the answer. Jaskier still has itching in his body, in his bones, that demands he leave home and travel into the depths of the desert, the forests beyond, towards even the ocean he knows exists only from maps. He has yet to see it with his own eyes, and the idea of never seeing it bears down on him like a beast.]
I'm not here to tell you what will make you happy, my friend. If it is the Path and hunting, who am I to say otherwise? [He plucks a string, finding a new song.] My only hope is that you are happy. In the end. By the time I'm gone, at the very least. I don't know a man who deserves it more.