[He tips his head back. In the dark, and without Geralt looking at him, thank gods he misses the flush that comes to Jaskier's cheek. The relief that spreads through his chest. How the feelings that once had him belt out burn with a rattling sadness, with a grip on his lute that could make the wood wine, becomes more memory than ever.

He goes back to looking up with his smile lingering. The elves needed him, he thinks, but. So do others. The people here.]

Yes. Me too.

[It is a surprisingly peaceful night. Jaskier lays out his bedroll next to Geralt -- the alternative simply does not apply to him -- where he sleeps surprisingly calmly. Perhaps it's the open air. Or hints of the old life they'd lived for years, a familiarity like sliding on a well-tailored doublet.

It is with cracking bones and a boisterous yawn that he wakes, peering over at Mog when he hears a snapping crack. Under the gryphon's claws are half of a lizard, still oozing blood into the sand. Ah. Lovely.] At least Geralt needn't find you breakfast now.

[Jaskier is pulling his trousers on when he hears a squawk, looking up just in time to see Mog running off in a tizzy, chasing a little thing kicking up sand. Not a lizard this time. Something bigger -- a bird?]

Fuck. Fuck. Mog! Oi! Don't -- don't chase that! Come back here this instance!

[Of course Jaskier chases him. What else is he supposed to do? He chases, and somehow it spurs Mog to go even bloody faster; eventually Jaskier has to stop to catch his breath, shoving his bangs out of his face with irritation.]

Ugh. I'm going to wring his little neck. [He points ahead, straight north.] How does something with such stubby legs run so fast?