[The roar of some unknown fiend is the only thing that pulls him from this well he's falling into. You're hurting them, Moglad said, but he doesn't know what it means -- but he does --
But does he care? Isn't that what truly matters?
Jaskier jerks his head up as the sound cuts off abruptly, staring up with cloudy eyes that take a moment longer to recognize Geralt. There is nothing unusual, he thinks, about Geralt touching him. But somehow he feels a weight behind it.]
No. Why would I be? [He looks down at his hands. There's nothing there but the stains of the nightshade berries, a smear of black and purple. Nothing like blood --
Jaskier coughs, choking, pulling from Geralt's hand. And when he looks down, staining over the berry juice is blood, pouring out of his mouth, and when he breathes he hears the whistle of holes in his lungs. His shoulders. He looks down and there: a hole, blasted through his stomach, pushing a misshapen, pale organ out. Another hole: a glimpse of bone stained red, the wet flash of white fat. Skin scoured red from the heat of the magic setting off.
There's no shield to protect him this time. The blast cuts through him, through his body, leaving holes thick as spears. The nightshade surrounding him all stand at attention, reaching up as if they'll grab onto Geralt --
And all at once they die, curling, black as the berries they'd dropped. Still.]
cw: gore
But does he care? Isn't that what truly matters?
Jaskier jerks his head up as the sound cuts off abruptly, staring up with cloudy eyes that take a moment longer to recognize Geralt. There is nothing unusual, he thinks, about Geralt touching him. But somehow he feels a weight behind it.]
No. Why would I be? [He looks down at his hands. There's nothing there but the stains of the nightshade berries, a smear of black and purple. Nothing like blood --
Jaskier coughs, choking, pulling from Geralt's hand. And when he looks down, staining over the berry juice is blood, pouring out of his mouth, and when he breathes he hears the whistle of holes in his lungs. His shoulders. He looks down and there: a hole, blasted through his stomach, pushing a misshapen, pale organ out. Another hole: a glimpse of bone stained red, the wet flash of white fat. Skin scoured red from the heat of the magic setting off.
There's no shield to protect him this time. The blast cuts through him, through his body, leaving holes thick as spears. The nightshade surrounding him all stand at attention, reaching up as if they'll grab onto Geralt --
And all at once they die, curling, black as the berries they'd dropped. Still.]