[Jaskier's entire body goes taut, awaiting for something to happen. To seep into his mind. The curse -- the magic? -- of whatever is affecting Geralt does not appear eager to reach out to him again, but as the machine roars and Jaskier closes his eyes against the sharp wind, he realizes it does not matter much if he feels it again. He doesn't need to. When he closes his eyes, he sees the splatter of blood, his insides in his hand. He does not even need to close his eyes to feel shrapnel tearing through his body.
Jaskier trembles as they ride. He had made an art of pushing the memory of Nocwich's final night out of his mind, to not examining it so hard. Another bout of terrible luck. A paltry bit of trouble.
Not a paper-thin shield of magic from death. Not even a shield he could control. A death he would have had no hand in.
By the time the ride is over and Jaskier is able to get off, his legs have grown weak, shaking. He steps several steps away from Geralt and leans over, hands across his chest, heaving. Nothing comes out, of course -- the Horizon is not real -- and there is nothing in his stomach to purge. His head buzzes. His stomach churns.
Jaskier wipes his mouth with his sleeve, standing. He looks up the Singularity, which feels bigger than it ever has. Even the one he visited in the world itself, even if it was only the edge of a crater. He doesn't look at Geralt as he passes by him, approaching this giant, humming monolith. (Well. He imagines it humming. To him, it truly is quiet.) Is it really alive, as Rhy and Ronan have insisted? Does it look out into the world that gazes back upon it?
The bard holds out his hand, feeling endlessly small, a mere inconvenience to this thing. Even on the Continent, he did not approach monoliths. He's never known anyone who has.
His fingers hover above the stone. Still, he doesn't feel anything. But with a swallow, he presses his palm flat against it.
And jerks back with an "ah!" He stares at his hand, as if he's pet a cat he was sure was stuffed only to feel it purr.] I felt something. I mean... I think it's vibrating. Is it supposed to be doing that?
[He touches it again, faint presses of his fingertips across the surface.] No, perhaps not a vibration. Quieter. As if it's humming to itself.
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Jaskier trembles as they ride. He had made an art of pushing the memory of Nocwich's final night out of his mind, to not examining it so hard. Another bout of terrible luck. A paltry bit of trouble.
Not a paper-thin shield of magic from death. Not even a shield he could control. A death he would have had no hand in.
By the time the ride is over and Jaskier is able to get off, his legs have grown weak, shaking. He steps several steps away from Geralt and leans over, hands across his chest, heaving. Nothing comes out, of course -- the Horizon is not real -- and there is nothing in his stomach to purge. His head buzzes. His stomach churns.
Jaskier wipes his mouth with his sleeve, standing. He looks up the Singularity, which feels bigger than it ever has. Even the one he visited in the world itself, even if it was only the edge of a crater. He doesn't look at Geralt as he passes by him, approaching this giant, humming monolith. (Well. He imagines it humming. To him, it truly is quiet.) Is it really alive, as Rhy and Ronan have insisted? Does it look out into the world that gazes back upon it?
The bard holds out his hand, feeling endlessly small, a mere inconvenience to this thing. Even on the Continent, he did not approach monoliths. He's never known anyone who has.
His fingers hover above the stone. Still, he doesn't feel anything. But with a swallow, he presses his palm flat against it.
And jerks back with an "ah!" He stares at his hand, as if he's pet a cat he was sure was stuffed only to feel it purr.] I felt something. I mean... I think it's vibrating. Is it supposed to be doing that?
[He touches it again, faint presses of his fingertips across the surface.] No, perhaps not a vibration. Quieter. As if it's humming to itself.