You are not welcome here, Master Jaskier. You are not... not right, kupo!
[In any other moment, perhaps the moogle would have looked comical riding a tiny flying mount, black, dangerous-looking armor encasing his small, round frame, with his greatsword drawn, hanging to one side in both paws.]
What on earth are you talking about, Moglad? [Jaskier stares down the moogle who has become his closest creation in the Horizon, but the moogle does not waver. And seeing the dark, pulsing glow of his pom rests something deep and cold in Jaskier's bones. Something that tells him this is wrong.
Moglad's steed gives a warning snort. Look what you did, kupo. He gestures to Bleobheris behind them, with its trunk growing dark, like black ash, and the leaves having turned a muddy brown. Around them litter their corpses, along with abandoned, rotting peacock feathers. You're hurting them.
Jaskier takes a step towards Bleobheris, towards Moglad at its base, with a strangled apology in his throat. But why should he have to? Bleobheris is his, and so is Moglad. And he's never... he's never felt this...
Moglad lifts his sword, standing on the back of his horse as she flies through the air, stamping her hooves on nothing. Leave, Jaskier. I don't want to hurt you, kupo.
Can you? he thinks at the same time as I don't want to hurt you, either. But he hesitates too long, and Moglad's greatsword raises through the air --
Jaskier does not recall how he gets anywhere, only that he is running, and Singularity watches him with his panting heart and cold blood with omnipotent indifference. Where Jaskier steps, he's afraid to look down. Knowing that, with every print of his boots, there grow tangles of horrid purple flowers, petals expanding as black and green berries grow heavy and fall.
And he does not look up, knowing the wisps have turned into moths, feasting on the life in Bleobheris.
When he finally stops, when he can't breathe anymore, he falls to the ground, curled over his knees. His nails dig into soil as the nightshade blooms underneath his hands, staining the soil with the juice of its berries.
He can leave. He can go back to the baker, Kol -- he has not left Kol's bakery all week without feeling this surge in him, as Kol works harder, his hands covered in bruises and wounds that grow deeper by the day --
Jaskier doesn't know how long he sits there, his head in his hands, kneeling as the nightshade grows and blooms and fruits, hearing Moglad's words. You're hurting them. And he cannot wake up.
Bleobheris rots, but these flowers grow without any effort. Toxic. Eager.]
closed to geralt. emotions time.
[In any other moment, perhaps the moogle would have looked comical riding a tiny flying mount, black, dangerous-looking armor encasing his small, round frame, with his greatsword drawn, hanging to one side in both paws.]
What on earth are you talking about, Moglad? [Jaskier stares down the moogle who has become his closest creation in the Horizon, but the moogle does not waver. And seeing the dark, pulsing glow of his pom rests something deep and cold in Jaskier's bones. Something that tells him this is wrong.
Moglad's steed gives a warning snort. Look what you did, kupo. He gestures to Bleobheris behind them, with its trunk growing dark, like black ash, and the leaves having turned a muddy brown. Around them litter their corpses, along with abandoned, rotting peacock feathers. You're hurting them.
Jaskier takes a step towards Bleobheris, towards Moglad at its base, with a strangled apology in his throat. But why should he have to? Bleobheris is his, and so is Moglad. And he's never... he's never felt this...
Moglad lifts his sword, standing on the back of his horse as she flies through the air, stamping her hooves on nothing. Leave, Jaskier. I don't want to hurt you, kupo.
Can you? he thinks at the same time as I don't want to hurt you, either. But he hesitates too long, and Moglad's greatsword raises through the air --
Jaskier does not recall how he gets anywhere, only that he is running, and Singularity watches him with his panting heart and cold blood with omnipotent indifference. Where Jaskier steps, he's afraid to look down. Knowing that, with every print of his boots, there grow tangles of horrid purple flowers, petals expanding as black and green berries grow heavy and fall.
And he does not look up, knowing the wisps have turned into moths, feasting on the life in Bleobheris.
When he finally stops, when he can't breathe anymore, he falls to the ground, curled over his knees. His nails dig into soil as the nightshade blooms underneath his hands, staining the soil with the juice of its berries.
He can leave. He can go back to the baker, Kol -- he has not left Kol's bakery all week without feeling this surge in him, as Kol works harder, his hands covered in bruises and wounds that grow deeper by the day --
Jaskier doesn't know how long he sits there, his head in his hands, kneeling as the nightshade grows and blooms and fruits, hearing Moglad's words. You're hurting them. And he cannot wake up.
Bleobheris rots, but these flowers grow without any effort. Toxic. Eager.]