[ Only once did Geralt visit Bleobheris. He left the moment the wisps morphed into ash-grey moths, the grass around the great tree dying. Should've known, really. There's too much life in Bleobheris for him to exist in it as he is, and the last thing he wants is to bring more death and horror into Jaskier's life.
The room inside Dean's bunker feels safest. There's no life there, nothing that can turn on him. It's wood and steel, buried underground. When he isn't searching for Julie, that is where he's retreated. Thinking. Trying to consider what to do next. (Making effort to keep himself together, so many of his memories and thoughts overbearing.)
With every option exhausted, there remains one thing left: the Singularity. She holds a connection to it. So perhaps...it will know where she may be. He recalls what she said about how the others had heard nothing. Static. Geralt suspects he may be the same. Witchers are not known for their deep connection to Chaos. Jaskier, though. Jaskier is as close to replicating Julie's experience with magic as he knows it: merely human until this world granted him power he took to like a fish to water.
It's a hunch. A guess at best. But he wants to try it.
Geralt takes his motorbike, not Roach, unwilling to handle anything living, breathing. It rumbles along the Horizon—circling around until he pulls up in front of Bleobheris. He expects Jaskier inside it, same as ever. He had seemed all right in the physical world, after all. Unaffected.
Instead, Moglad is shouting. Jaskier is on his knees. Geralt hops off the bike, crouching beside his friend, worry etched into his brows. He touches the bard's shoulder. The smell of nightshade fills the air. Crushed berries stain the earth. ]
no subject
The room inside Dean's bunker feels safest. There's no life there, nothing that can turn on him. It's wood and steel, buried underground. When he isn't searching for Julie, that is where he's retreated. Thinking. Trying to consider what to do next. (Making effort to keep himself together, so many of his memories and thoughts overbearing.)
With every option exhausted, there remains one thing left: the Singularity. She holds a connection to it. So perhaps...it will know where she may be. He recalls what she said about how the others had heard nothing. Static. Geralt suspects he may be the same. Witchers are not known for their deep connection to Chaos. Jaskier, though. Jaskier is as close to replicating Julie's experience with magic as he knows it: merely human until this world granted him power he took to like a fish to water.
It's a hunch. A guess at best. But he wants to try it.
Geralt takes his motorbike, not Roach, unwilling to handle anything living, breathing. It rumbles along the Horizon—circling around until he pulls up in front of Bleobheris. He expects Jaskier inside it, same as ever. He had seemed all right in the physical world, after all. Unaffected.
Instead, Moglad is shouting. Jaskier is on his knees. Geralt hops off the bike, crouching beside his friend, worry etched into his brows. He touches the bard's shoulder. The smell of nightshade fills the air. Crushed berries stain the earth. ]
Jaskier. Are you hurt?