[Jaskier knows this look very well, and thus ignores it completely. The time has long passed for him to be truly annoyed with anything Geralt thought of him, and even their little fight hardly lasted (at least for Jaskier, it did.) Can he truly believe that was eight weeks gone past? It's felt like a year. Hah. Look. He found his missing year.
Jaskier gives his friend a good pat on the shoulder despite his sigh. Sam's words have sunk deep, it seems, that they keep bubbling up to the surface. Jaskier must wonder if there really is a difference between an optimist and a fool. That he could think, even for a moment, that he is lucky to have someone he considers a friend here. That, should thinks go awry, he will... he will do what he can to help.
It isn't much. Some illusionary birds and a bard. But they can still try.]
Sleep well, you lout.
[He must be exhausted to sleep so quickly. And Jaskier, unable to sit around doing nothing, finds his hands itching for something to do. Sitting here reading boring historical tomes isn't it. The choice left is easy. He releases his lute from its cage, running his fingers gently down its sides. Such a simple thing compared to the elvencraft.
Gods, he misses it. He misses it terribly. A piece of his own arm. He's had it nearly his whole life now. Now he's stuck with this... inadequate thing.
Still, he can make it sound beautiful. Jaskier returns to the chair and folds one leg over the other, leaning the belly of the lute against it. He doesn't sing at first; it's simply plucked notes that move quietly through the room, his eyes closing as he concentrates. And then he sings: something he isn't afraid of that came with him from Horizon. It's not about anything in particular. No theme or ballad. It's only pretty words, inspired by his journey up snowy mountains, through wintery caves. Simply the song of winter.
It would nearly be winter there. At home. And he would be going back to Oxenfurt, with warm, fur-lined cloaks and old friends. There would be no fall of Cintra yet. No flames in Sodden.
He shakes his head and drives the thoughts away. There is only the snow, the frost swirling off his tongue. Heavy clouds and a troll who hums a song bemoaning the loss of his people.]
no subject
Jaskier gives his friend a good pat on the shoulder despite his sigh. Sam's words have sunk deep, it seems, that they keep bubbling up to the surface. Jaskier must wonder if there really is a difference between an optimist and a fool. That he could think, even for a moment, that he is lucky to have someone he considers a friend here. That, should thinks go awry, he will... he will do what he can to help.
It isn't much. Some illusionary birds and a bard. But they can still try.]
Sleep well, you lout.
[He must be exhausted to sleep so quickly. And Jaskier, unable to sit around doing nothing, finds his hands itching for something to do. Sitting here reading boring historical tomes isn't it. The choice left is easy. He releases his lute from its cage, running his fingers gently down its sides. Such a simple thing compared to the elvencraft.
Gods, he misses it. He misses it terribly. A piece of his own arm. He's had it nearly his whole life now. Now he's stuck with this... inadequate thing.
Still, he can make it sound beautiful. Jaskier returns to the chair and folds one leg over the other, leaning the belly of the lute against it. He doesn't sing at first; it's simply plucked notes that move quietly through the room, his eyes closing as he concentrates. And then he sings: something he isn't afraid of that came with him from Horizon. It's not about anything in particular. No theme or ballad. It's only pretty words, inspired by his journey up snowy mountains, through wintery caves. Simply the song of winter.
It would nearly be winter there. At home. And he would be going back to Oxenfurt, with warm, fur-lined cloaks and old friends. There would be no fall of Cintra yet. No flames in Sodden.
He shakes his head and drives the thoughts away. There is only the snow, the frost swirling off his tongue. Heavy clouds and a troll who hums a song bemoaning the loss of his people.]