abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

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.

[ He's watching the stars, too, though for him, the constellations have grown familiar once more. One of the first things he learned in this sphere. Difficult to find his way otherwise.

His gaze shifts to Jaskier. Hm. ] It's what I know.

[ That's the honest truth. He went back to hunting because that's all he has. That's the life he'll always have. Killing monsters. ] But things did change. After you and Yennefer— [ He trails off for a second. ] I would not have returned for Ciri in Cintra if not for what transpired.

[ He'd have carried on as he was. Travelling. Telling himself he was content with a close companion and a—what Yennefer had been. That he didn't need more. Then he'd returned from the mountain alone, rode in solitude afterwards for a year, and it was then he felt it more acutely than ever. Something missing. Something he'd left behind.

He tosses a bone into the fire. ] I never belonged on the Continent, Jaskier. This world, it's where you and Ciri are. [ Yennefer, too. Despite it all. ] I need nothing more.

[ Jaskier has asked him before, Is this what pleases you?, and the answer is, his life has only ever been measured in hard-won bonds, in the path he walks. He's left some of those bonds behind. But he's forged new ones here, as well. Is that what enjoyment is? He doesn't know. He's never thought of his life in those terms. Enjoyment. Much of it has simply been about holding onto what he has. And if he can wake the next morning and know that those most important to him are safe, then that's enough. Beyond that—what is he meant to seek? What else is there for him? ]

[There's no judgement from Jaskier. Hasn't he, too, returned to what he knows? He knows performing. He knows writing of what he experiences, the people he meets. He knows spreading his name and making coin. They are never things that have been a waste of time.

Jaskier's hand still at the sound of her name. Mog's gone quiet now, and still, curled into a tight ball with a belly full of meat. Not a thought of worry in his small, feathered head.]

Well, that's clear enough. I watched for years as you avoided even thought of her.

[It's not like Jaskier to avoid the obvious, which that certainly was. For years. When Geralt denied the thought of her was what made him miss sleep for ages, too. He certainly sleeps rather well now, doesn't he? (Jaskier hopes. Better than those years ago, at least.)

Jaskier scoffs, popping a dripping bit of rabbit into his mouth. He dabs his mouth delicately with an embroidered napkin after, pulled from his pocket.] You belong wherever you are, with the people you love and befriend. It's always been that simple, Geralt. Anyone who disagrees can fuck off.

[He knows what Geralt may be hinting at, but Jaskier simply cannot agree. Whatever he is, whatever he was made to be, he belongs. Because... you know what, because Jaskier says he does.

He quiets. Ah. That's what Geralt was saying, actually. He clears his throat.]

All these years, you've never managed a straight answer. At this rate, I'm going to have to answer for you. You and Ciri, my beloved best friend and tawny, wayward daughter, make me happy. And all the strange fools we've collected on the way. And maybe the dumb beast at your feet. [He imitates Geralt's voice in that precise manner he's learned from a lifetime with him.

It isn't satisfying, if he's truthful. He's always been afraid of this. That Geralt never expects it for himself. Happiness. A sense of peace. Something more.

He leans back, poking Mog with a foot just to bother him. The gryphon mewls at him, kicking back with a back leg, before curling up tighter into a perfect ball, legs tucked in against his belly.] I shouldn't ask. Something about being on the Path again has my thoughts heavier than usual. [That's all it is. Clearly.] It's good, you know. Being out here again. This, I suppose... is what pleases me.

[ Mm. Well. Regrets abound, isn't that how it goes in his life? But Ciri is here, at least. Safe, and years later, he doesn't seem to have fucked it up so terribly if she...still thinks of him as she does. Her family.

He still sleeps like shit. Just a bit less so, depending on what's on his mind. Lately he's taken to watching the stars, but their trip so far has perhaps been the calmest of all his nights.

A hint of a curl lifts his lips: wry, contemplative. ] It does make me happy when the beast chews your toes.

[ He's deflecting, but not as harshly as he might've once. Call it an improvement. He'll always be an old dog, too set in his ways, and yet—he isn't unaware he's changed. Isn't unaware he's...different. Peace and contentment remain things he doesn't know how to want for himself. Not in the way Jaskier means. For him, he finds his peace in a quiet day where nothing has gone awry, in the satisfaction of a simple hunt where he's paid without fuss and can have a drink afterwards without being hassled.

He sees a future in Ciri, though. Not for him, but for her. And that's new. It's more than he's ever had in years. Decades.

His expression softens. It's good. It is. ] Been awhile. [ He stokes the fire. ] You've been composing more.

[Jaskier laughs.] You're an utter monster. Just like him! [He gives a tip of his head towards Mog, devouring the rest of the rabbit from his skewer. It's still juicy, and a pinch of salt and rosemary sprinkled across it from his new stash of spices. (He can't go anywhere without them after Alucard's so pressed the issue.)

Mm. Yeah. It's good.

It's good to know the old bits of their lives can still slot together so well.]

I have. [The skewer finished, he tosses the branch and bones into the fire, saving only a couple of whole bones for Mog to chew on later. He lays out on his bedroll, lute gathered against his stomach, watching the stars as he begins to play once more (fingers carefully wiped of grease.)] I have a lot to be pleased with. I already feel quite good with our decision to stay. Here. I suppose... I like this place. Quite a bit.

[ The monster barely stirs. His wings are tucked tight until Mog appears little more than a black and brown ball of feathers and fluff.

He studies Jaskier for a long moment. Watches him pluck at the lute. Not a brand new song, but new. He's heard it in one of the bard's performances recently. Jaskier's not merely been composing more. He's been composing songs about this world. The people in it, the places, the gods. And he thinks, whether or not Jaskier would have chosen to stay in their new sphere, a piece of him will remain.

He is glad to hear it, though. That Jaskier is content with the decision. He sees it. Sees it in how quickly Jaskier took to the idea: a pet, a business, a contribution to a city project. A home. This world has its own threats, its own problems. But which one hasn't? The Continent is in the midst of war. At least here, no one is chasing Ciri. No one is after Jaskier for information simply because he chose to write some songs about a Witcher. He can enter taverns and shops without being barred because of what he is. He knows it can't last, that these unspooling tensions will snap sooner or later—but surrounded by those he's learned to trust, it's...less of a weight. ]

Could be worse. Could've been full of flesh hungry lizards.

[The more he accepts the opportunity, the less he feels there is to be burdened by leaving behind. There will always be pieces of the Continent he wishes for, but the more he thinks of them, the more he must realize they are places that no longer exist there, either. Bleobheris, Posada, even the Dragon Mountains.

Once Nilfgaard moves far enough, none of them will remain.

Jaskier's song pauses.]

Would it really kill you to have a single positive thought? [It's half teasing, and yet half of it isn't. They have been through a lot. Together, apart. In the last few years, especially. But even yet, he cannot imagine Geralt continuing on like this forever. Bereft of true, easy happiness, satisfied with surviving another day, of keeping his family safe.

Is that all there is to be? Do Witchers ever retire? His answer was disappointing. But the truth was, Geralt could retire here. If he wanted. There were no expectations of a Witcher. The world was not flooded with monsters. The monoliths did not pour them out like blood.] Besides, Mog will protect us from any lizards. It's the one thing he's good at hunting.

[Even if he's dead asleep now. Still.]

If this world can give you anything, I truly hope it's an opportunity to do something for yourself, for once. I should think you'll go mad if all you do is for others.

[ The reality is, he could have retired on the Continent, too. The monsters had long dwindled for years before Ciri ever triggered the first monolith outside of Cintra. Witchers have been a dying breed for more than one reason. But it's true he isn't expected to do only as he was made to here. No one would blink twice to see him work behind a flower stall instead. The concept of a Witcher does not exist to these folk.

He doesn't want to retire. He doesn't know how. That's the real answer. The last two weeks in the city alone stirred an itch inside him, a burning in his hands to pick up his sword and mount his horse and not look back. Sam asked him once what he'd have been if not a Witcher, and he'd had no answer that would have satisfied. He can tell Jaskier searches for the same in him sometimes. The only person who ever seemed to understand him was Dean, when he asked, So why do you do it? and Geralt had replied, It's what I know, and it was the first time someone had not looked at him with the sense that they believed he should want to seek more than that.

He draws his legs up, arms resting on his knees as he leans back against the rock. For yourself. Is that it? Is it that easy? ] I've thought it before. That I've no need to leave the city anymore. I have a home, a family. I return to it, and I think, I could simply stay. But I don't.

[ This is not a matter he's ever had to confront before. The idea that he could build what he should want, what anyone should want—home, family, people who want him there and would not question it if he simply sat about and made little shelves all day and chatted with his horse as he wished—and find his heart actually missing the life he never asked for. He could leave it behind. An opportunity, as Jaskier says. He finds himself unable to. It's been ingrained so deep in him, he doesn't know how to separate it from the core of his being.

He almost can't explain. He spent his entire life learning to accept that there is no other road for him and now— ]

I've been on the Path for a hundred years, Jaskier. [ He's quiet, his eyes on the crackling fire. He can't say this is what brings him happiness. It's not that simple. But he does know that when he isn't out here, a piece of him looks for it. Waits for it. ] It's home for me, too.

Edited 2022-04-13 13:02 (UTC)

[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.

[ He can accept serenity. A sort of contentment with what he's done and made and found. At best, he thinks what he has here, it satisfies him in the ways that matter, in the ways that do not leave him feeling as if he's missing something he can't find.

Maybe in time, he can reconcile what it means to need or want a life he'd been forced into and never thought he could choose otherwise. Most of his years have been spent learning to accept because it was the only way the bitterness and hate did not grow to swallow him whole. That's all he knows how to do. To accept what hand he's been dealt, shape it and work with it to make something he can live with no matter how painful its mark.

For a long moment, he's silent. He wants to tell Jaskier to stop concerning himself so much with a Witcher's happiness. A few years ago, he might've. Now he simply hums, a sound that acknowledges what Jaskier is saying. ]

Be some time before you're gone, the rate you age. [ He's teasing, skirting around a topic he never likes to think of. Jaskier's very human mortality. But really, there's as much a chance Jaskier will outlive him. He's good at what he does. But it only takes one slip. ]

I don't miss the Continent. [ He admits it, finally. ] And there are people here who have become...more than I meant.

[ He's thinking of Sam and Rinwell and Julie and Nadine, but even past them: the handful of those he could call friends, more than he can ever recall having. They've forged a bond through this place. It is not one that can be replicated. ]

[It's good Geralt doesn't say it, because Jaskier would've snapped at him. What's he bloody think Jaskier's thought about for years? Why they are friends? Why would he not care about his happiness? Geralt's an idiot about most things, but this is Jaskier's sticking point.

He is not a Witcher to Jaskier.

He is always Geralt first.]

I age the same as anyone. I know how to take care of myself, thank you. [Besides, scratching at the scruff on his chin, he can't say he isn't looking aged, for sure. He's open to the idea Nadine likes it, though. Who doesn't like a soft scratch during a kiss?

Jaskier smiles up at the stars.]

A secret: I don't really, either. [He misses parts of it. The people. The people he helped, especially, when he was in a position to. That is really the only thread that still connects him. The elves. If only -- there must be someone who will continue his work.]

I know what you mean. [His thoughts go to Hector, to Nadine. To Rhy. To Alucard. Friends, he knows, he could never have made without this place.

All of a sudden, he laughs.] Oh, no. I suppose I'll never be forced to become the acting viscount. A true tragedy for Lettenhove, I'm sure.

[ A hint aged, perhaps. It's more in the eyes than anything, but Geralt is used to seeing that. The weight that settles there year by year and never goes away. Doesn't matter how little or how much one ages otherwise.

He snorts. ] I prefer you here than in Lettenhove.

[ He adds nothing more. It no longer feels so selfish a sentiment to state out loud now that they've decided to settle. Now that Jaskier has confessed he is happy here, making a name for himself, that he does not miss the Continent.

He listens to Jaskier strum his lute, eventually tuck it away for sleep. Snuffs out the fire. They needn't keep it going through the night in the warmth of the desert. An hour or so later, Geralt lays down to sleep, too. He wakes once in the night, and then rises on the edge of dawn. Roach is by the tree. He goes to ready her for the day's ride—is adjusting how his sword sits at her side when he hears a thump of footsteps, shouting. The screech of a small gryphon.

Ah, fuck. What now?

He sniffs the air (no blood) as he follows the noise, catching up to Jaskier in the middle of the trees. Notably, without Mog in his arms. Not that hard to put two and two together.

Geralt sighs. He does not say that this is why he'd not wanted Mog along. He hadn't because instinctively Geralt prefers to travel with as little to look after as possible, but that's not the point. The gryphon is important to his friend, and Geralt is not so much of an oblivious bastard that he can't understand the reasons behind it.

So all he asks is, ] Which way?

[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?

[ Geralt pats Jaskier absently on the back while his friend is bent over, breathing hard. ] Or perhaps you're just slow.

[ He's poking fun. His attention is ahead, finally catching scent of the slain lizard nearby. Must've found more appetizing prey. Can't be anything too dangerous if Mog was bold enough to run after it. Geralt takes a step forward. The little gryphon, fortunately, is not a stealth creature nor the thing it's pursuing. Clear tracks in the sand, a feather or two caught in some brush. A dragging tail upon the ground. As he suspected, the other set of prints appears not especially large—a bit smaller than Mog, in fact.

Something tells him the gryphon's not gone far. Either it'll catch up to its target soon or tire on its, mm. Stubby legs.

Geralt does not give chase as a result. He simply follows the trail. It leads him around a rocky cliff, down a steep hill, and. There.

He waits for Jaskier to join him before he gestures to the scene ahead: Mog pouncing repeatedly on a small armoured beast that's curled up protectively and has taken to rolling around in the dirt to evade the miniature gryphon. He has not stopped out of caution. He's stopped because this is an amusingly absurd fucking spectacle and he can't help pausing to watch these two creatures fumble about.

Though if the cub has strayed, its mother must be nearby. Hm. He should probably fetch Mog. ] Wait here. If you hear a thrashing, stay out of sight.

Oh, fuck off.

[Some of them are human! And he has a right amount of energy, thank you, where it comes to what's important. Show him a man off the street who can perform for three hours straight without losing a hint of energy.

Jaskier pushes off a tree and follows, only not running anymore because Geralt isn't. If something's happened to Mog, he trusts his friend would not be so calm.

And it's for good reason. The scene in front of them is fucking stupid.]

Mog! What on earth are you doing, you baffoon? You're not chewing through that! [He's about to step out and scoop the chirping gryphon up when he pauses.] A thrashing? A thrashing what?

[As if in answer, there's a trumpet of a sound in the distance. The curled up beast that has avoided being Mog's breakfast appears to pause as if listening.

Ah. Ah. This is. This is the baby, isn't it?]

[ Jaskier's scolding goes ignored. Geralt's steps are silent as he navigates the uneven ground to where the gryphon is making hissing squawks. First the pigeon, now this. Perhaps he should put Will retrieve wayward pets as part of him job description when searching for a contract.

The baby chaigon rolls into a tree and bounces. Mog creeps closer, as if sensing his chance. Then his wings open and Geralt promptly snatches him up by the scruff of his neck.

That is unmistakably the sound of an adult chaigon coming. He says nothing about it, does not hurry or look back, just tucks the gryphon under one arm and grabs Jaskier by the elbow. They're only dangerous if threatened. Best to leave. He's not looking to fight something he isn't paid for. ]

Come on. [ He leads Jaskier along, Mog chirping. At least these miniature gryphons don't seem to fucking fly. Behind them, the heavy stomping steps grow louder. Fuck, where's Roach? ] Put a damn lead on him next time.

[Jaskier gives a sigh of relief once the Witcher has his hands (delicately, he notices) around the gryphon.] You failed to mention there is a much larger one, presumably, out there.

[It's not said with much worry, though. Once they're along together, he takes the gryphon back and cradles the naughty thing against his chest.]

I'm not putting a leash on him! What is he, a dog? He's much smarter. Aren't you, Mog? [He coos, then recalls he is meant to be disciplining the gryphon, not praising it.] Now, you can't go off on your own hunting things! You're not a bloody dragon, all right?

[Mog gives a chirp-purr, which is equivalent to the most pathetic sound in the world.] Ugh, don't pout. I know you were only trying to help us with breakfast. [He pauses. There's no second trumpet, at least, but now he can certainly hear something large moving.] Probably.

Didn't think I needed to. [ It's a baby; why would its mother not be near? He hands the gryphon over with a sigh.

Right. Breakfast. Which was what Geralt had planned on doing before he was disrupted by a shouting bard and his runaway beast. He supposes they can make do with bread and cheese along the trail. There's an inn not too far from here, one of those middle-of-the-nowhere cabins that offer a resting stop for travellers.

Another trumpet sounds, but the stomping ceases. Seems she found her lost child. He listens while they walk, but the steps do not grow closer.

Should be all right. For now.

He takes apart the signs of their camp when he returns, sweeping ashes into the dirt and breaking down the shelter he built. On the main roads, he's less cautious, but no point in taking chances, either. Roach nudges him as he offers her an apple to crunch on. ] We'll reach the inn by evening. Find a bed for the night.

Excuse me, I haven't had time to update my bestiary! I'll make a note that the rolly bits get quite a big bigger than, say, fox-sized.

[Jaskier lets out a breath. He's never safer than he is when he's with Geralt, but. To be fair, the rolly bit looked rather... cute. And if it was only a wee baby, he'd rather Mog nor Geralt be forced to hurt it or its kin. It likely got lost chasing lizards just as Mog did chasing it.

Mog, by the way, who despite losing his prey and being scruffed, looks very pleased with himself, cradled in Jaskier's arms. Mog stares up at him with softened eyes, his fluffy tail curled around Jaskier's arm. Jaskier sneaks him a blackberry, grown between his fingers. He's getting much better at it, as time goes on. Growing little individual things in an instant. Hardly feeling a pull of the magic on him.

Besides, he's fed Roach tons of magic berries, and she's far from keeling over. So they must be safe for pets.]

Ah. The good old days, sharing a bed stinking of others' sweat and come. Oh, I delight in reliving such memories! [That actually comes out not sarcastic. If anyone is a sucker for nostalgia, it is Jaskier.] And then Aquila tomorrow? If I recall correctly, it's rather near some body of water. Is there a coast to visit? I bloody miss the sight of water after this long in the desert.

[ The rolly bits. Geralt's expression is flat. ] A chaigon.

[ Rolly bits. He shakes his head, adjusting the strap on Roach's saddlebag. He checks his supplies, his weapons, to make sure it's all there. Then he mounts his horse and waits for Jaskier to do the same before they ride off, leaving behind both mother and child stomping about in the woods.

In a few months, he may return to the path and there will be two of them. But unless they bother anyone, he isn't particularly worried.

Mm. Sharing a stinking bed in a shit backwater inn somewhere. Pleasant indeed. He isn't nostalgic the same way Jaskier is, but they are not unwelcome memories. Comforts are not what he gives a damn about. He remembers more the quiet nights by a fire, the candlelight, Jaskier humming a new song while Geralt sharpened his sword, restocked his elixirs. Jaskier helping tend to his wounds despite his annoyed sounds. Picking over a cold supper because he was sleeping off the toxic effects, and Jaskier had saved him a portion of the meal. ]

Mm-hmm. A bay. [ They can visit. It's on the way, anyhow.

Evening falls quickly, the stars in the sky by the time they reach the inn. Dusty, full of cobwebs, but serviceable. The old man behind the counter is kindly enough. Geralt pays him a couple of silvers for the night, as well as a roast pheasant. Some stew. And ale, of course. It isn't crowded and not near the the audience Jaskier had at the Old Public Hall—but he knows the bard will want to perform all the same. He settles back in a corner table, content to watch while Jaskier does so. Mog curls on the seat beside him, tucked under the table and sleeping once more. ]

A chaigon! Of course you already know the local name. Well, I'll make a note of it.

[He sniffs. Excuse him; he's not out here destroying the local wildlife in lieu of spending his time on performing. But, chided or not, when they return to Roach and his own horse he reaches through his bag for a notebook and pen (thank you, Aleksandr), writing down the name as they walk, along with a hasty little sketch of the smaller one. His horse is gentle enough the sway doesn't mess up his lines -- or, honestly, the pen is that good.

A pen! Imagine. No more quills for him. Unless he enjoys the feel of them. (He does.)

That's an idea. Between his performances, he should work on his bestiary. There is only the one in the Horizon he gifted to Julie. He's lost his original copies, but he should recall plenty to recreate it here. Though it wouldn't do much good, considering the differences in the spheres. Should he craft one for this world?

Well. Fuck. Why not? He loves keeping busy. Another way to leave his imprint here.

He leaves the notebook on the table inside their room, however. It's a hobby, nothing more; Jaskier is still quite focused in spreading his name. Now that it's firmly established in Cadens, it's time to spread it further.

So he performs, the little inn rather delighted to have a performance (and even more wonderfully, the old man has heard tale of him!) He plays his songs of the Free Cities and Solvunn, deftly avoiding mention of Thorne in a place with... a smaller stage, so to speak. Once he's paused between songs, downing a pint of ale, he catches a breath by crashing into the table Geralt's at, bumping with a hip for him to make room. The applause still rings through the place.

Staying to listen to him. He always knew.] Enjoying your night? [He gives Mog a gentle scratch between his ears, and he coos.] It's strange how close this place comes to the Continent sometimes. If Mog weren't here, I wouldn't even know the difference.

[Well. Mog, and the pull of magic in him, which he uses during performance for little illusionary spots of light, or birds coming out of his lute during the finale. He has to make it memorable, after all.]

[ He's staying for a drink, thank you. (He stayed to listen.) He splits some bread, picks at it with butter and cheese while he waits for their meal to arrive. He's paid for an hour in the bath available upstairs afterwards. Even a bit off the path out here, running water reaches, though not heated water. Which doesn't matter given the warm spring air. A cool bath sounds perfectly pleasant.

He slips Mog a bit of bread. The gryphon snaps it up, his feathers puffing in pleasure. ]

Hm. [ Yeah. It does feel nearly like home. If they were trapped in space or places with metal carriages zooming about, he'd frankly not know what to think. Encountering strange inventions in a shared plane of the mind is one thing, a curiosity and a novelty he can examine and then leave behind afterwards. The idea of existing in a world full of that shit is...not preferable. ] And your magic. You've been practicing.

[ The birds, the lights. They're small spells, but magic, learned and controlled. Sometimes he still feels a little wonderment at it all—Jaskier, with magic. And yet it suits him. He almost can't imagine his friend without that flutter of colour and lights when he performs anymore, or sprouting plants from the ground as he pleases.

That's the other side of it, isn't it? If they were to return to the Continent, Jaskier's magic would be stripped away. No longer accessible through their proximity to the Singularity. It's yet one more reason this world, it...feels more and more like theirs. ]

[Jaskier gives a little smile towards Mog, petting him down his back. Spoiled. As Jaskier knew he would be, given enough time.

And Geralt hardly complained when Jaskier showed up with him in the first place, tucked into a shoulder bag. A bag full of fluff and fur, and occasionally a snort or something resembling a chirp.

Jaskier flicks his fingers at Geralt, making little sparks fly and dissipate into nothing.] Of course I have. The one time I didn't, I lost it. And... well, let's say I sort of understand Yennefer on that front. What it feels like, now, to lose it.

[Jaskier is the same. It has become so ingrained in him now, after nearly four full seasons. Who would he be if he lost it? Or would nothing have changed at all?] I want to make sure I do what I can to ensure no one can take it away. [His eyes flick up, and he smiles.] Though I suppose we're all at the mercy of the Singularity's whims, aren't we?

[ He recalls that. Jaskier had not exactly told him, but he'd be blind not to notice: wilting plants, rotting food, Jaskier fretting. He had not questioned it at the time, had rather thought Jaskier might approach Yennefer for help, and he'd been right. At the time, it'd made him almost fond, the idea of it. That the two of them might get along a bit more. He's always known Yennefer had a soft spot for Jaskier, despite outward appearances. (It is not so different than himself, in truth.)

Now Jaskier says, I sort of understand Yennefer, and his expression only flickers. It is not understanding he is lacking. Or at least, that isn't how it feels. It is too much of it. Sometimes he wishes there is something he were missing. Something that may make it easier to swallow. Change things. There isn't.

They aren't here for this, though. He's done his best to put it behind him. Nothing has ever been gained from looking back. ]

Mm. Where the flow of Chaos is concerned. But not what we choose to do. [ Some things can't be changed or controlled. He learned that a long time ago. But they've still choices to make. ]

[He should have expected some mention of her to cause a reaction, but he'd brought it up without much thought in it. However, he can read Geralt's expression, as subtle as it is.

He should let it go, but. Those memories are important to him.]

I don't mean because of what she... what she tried to do. I was thinking of the first time I saw her again, in Oxenfurt. I never thought I would see her so frightened. And, frankly, stinky. [What? It sticks with him.] I know what being powerless feels like. But I know the good one can do with power, too.

[And now he feels he does good with it. He can no longer be the Sandpiper, but he can be many things to other people. He can feed them should they grow hungry. He can create life in places devoid of it. And he can send Yennefer a friend when she may have no one else, who sings to her sweet songs and follows her so she is not alone.

He can give Sam a companion that reminds him of home.

No, he cannot imagine being without it again. That is why he trains, why he tempers his emotions from ever letting them swallow his powers again.

Jaskier releases a breath, fond.] Always the optimist, my friend. [He gives him a nudge.] And what do you choose to do next? I'm not against future excursions, of course, and I may need your assistance in my future tour to Libertas, but... beyond that, what will the great White Wolf do to keep himself occupied?

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