[ Geralt lingers outside for a second. Picking out heartbeats through a door is currently not a thing he can do (again)—and he's not interested in walking into a room full of strangers. When the place is clearly empty, though, he follows Jaskier in.
Mercenary, was it. He sets the books on the table and doesn't hesitate to take up Jaskier's bed. He's tired, Jaskier knows he's tired; he's not in the mood to pretend otherwise. It's not even sleep he's lacking. Not exactly. The guards, for the most part, let their nights go undisturbed. There are beds. Fuck knows he's not doing anything except sitting around or taking a walk in the yard once a damn day. It's more the fact that he's not had an outlet for anything in far too long. He can only meditate away so much. ]
Fairly certain he's a soldier. Not surprised he knows a sellsword. [ He thinks. Sam doesn't seem to operate within any kind of structured army as far as he can tell, but it's the closest term he can find to describe him and it's one Sam doesn't seem to reject when it comes up.
Geralt swings his legs up on the bed and lays down. He is moving more easily than he had before. The injury remains, but it isn't festering the way it once had. He suspects, a little, that their trip into the Horizon had suspended his body's natural healing briefly, though it's hard to say. He's never had to heal at the rate of a human before. ] Better. I'll be fine.
[ And he will be, in general, because that's simply how he works. He tucks an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Nicer ceiling than the dungeon's. How does Jaskier feel about the Horizon? He remembers the bard visiting often, always with his troupe, always with a white wolf that quickly vanished. The pieces all fall together now that he's back, memories intact once more. Parts of it catch him by surprise. That white wolf, especially. Or not surprise, but...he'd always thought—mm. Supposes it's not as if Jaskier ever mentions his family much, other than to tell an embellished story. Still. He knows Jaskier well enough to understand when he's covering something up. And he had been, hadn't he? In there, except at the end, when Geralt had finally agreed to join him on his travels.
Not that he's ever doubted their friendship or believed it lesser than it is. That's not it. It has always been exactly as it needs to be, no more no less. But much of it—nearly all of it, really—has been unspoken throughout the years, and something about the Horizon had peeled back more layers than it had any right to. It leaves behind a feeling he isn't sure what to do with, one that seems too fragile to contemplate. To turn in hands as rough as his. So he tucks it away, though not without a certain care. ] No trouble up here?
no subject
Mercenary, was it. He sets the books on the table and doesn't hesitate to take up Jaskier's bed. He's tired, Jaskier knows he's tired; he's not in the mood to pretend otherwise. It's not even sleep he's lacking. Not exactly. The guards, for the most part, let their nights go undisturbed. There are beds. Fuck knows he's not doing anything except sitting around or taking a walk in the yard once a damn day. It's more the fact that he's not had an outlet for anything in far too long. He can only meditate away so much. ]
Fairly certain he's a soldier. Not surprised he knows a sellsword. [ He thinks. Sam doesn't seem to operate within any kind of structured army as far as he can tell, but it's the closest term he can find to describe him and it's one Sam doesn't seem to reject when it comes up.
Geralt swings his legs up on the bed and lays down. He is moving more easily than he had before. The injury remains, but it isn't festering the way it once had. He suspects, a little, that their trip into the Horizon had suspended his body's natural healing briefly, though it's hard to say. He's never had to heal at the rate of a human before. ] Better. I'll be fine.
[ And he will be, in general, because that's simply how he works. He tucks an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Nicer ceiling than the dungeon's. How does Jaskier feel about the Horizon? He remembers the bard visiting often, always with his troupe, always with a white wolf that quickly vanished. The pieces all fall together now that he's back, memories intact once more. Parts of it catch him by surprise. That white wolf, especially. Or not surprise, but...he'd always thought—mm. Supposes it's not as if Jaskier ever mentions his family much, other than to tell an embellished story. Still. He knows Jaskier well enough to understand when he's covering something up. And he had been, hadn't he? In there, except at the end, when Geralt had finally agreed to join him on his travels.
Not that he's ever doubted their friendship or believed it lesser than it is. That's not it. It has always been exactly as it needs to be, no more no less. But much of it—nearly all of it, really—has been unspoken throughout the years, and something about the Horizon had peeled back more layers than it had any right to. It leaves behind a feeling he isn't sure what to do with, one that seems too fragile to contemplate. To turn in hands as rough as his. So he tucks it away, though not without a certain care. ] No trouble up here?