[Though his tenuous connection to the Singularity has certainly made him no stranger to visions, Jaskier has decided that if he must be inundated with these strange, alien dreams, then he will make something of them.
So he turns them into art. Into song. Why not? Whatever they mean, they could be a beautiful symbolism for something much deeper. It does not, of course, occur to him to share what he's seen -- this is far from the image he saw once in the Horizon. No, this feels... different.
It is not an odd sight to stumble upon where Jaskier is concerned: a small stage has been raised outside the markets, and there Jaskier stands, his lute in his hands, performing a song he's only recently begun tapping into:
Is it not true that a bitter berry Can taste sweet to another tongue? If fortune favors the bold, Then let the bold become us!
[He leans steps closer to the edge of the small stage, his coat sleeping behind him, and winks to a lovely lass in the front of his assembled crowd. As he steps down, plants begin to bloom at his feet, awing the crowd: flowers with spiked purple petals, with bright green leaves and stems that grow heavy with petals and clusters of unripe green berries.]
Let that dream of wine touch your tongue, Let that empty hand hold gold.
[He holds out his hand, as the other strums the belly of the lute, and out of it flies a tiny chickadee, peeping its song in tune with his notes, and the pretty young lass brushes his hand.]
You will know the weight of gold. I will know the weight of gold.
[The effect is not immediate, but once Jaskier has finished the performance and sits on the edge of the stage, stretching his hands, his eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed. And he watches, quietly, as the woman from before passes by a market stall and pockets a ring straight into a ruffle decorating her breast.
He drinks from a canteen from his bag, a bright, sour wine he recently purchased. One among many. Something about his thirst for it has come back. It's tasted so good lately.]
OTA | Cadens
So he turns them into art. Into song. Why not? Whatever they mean, they could be a beautiful symbolism for something much deeper. It does not, of course, occur to him to share what he's seen -- this is far from the image he saw once in the Horizon. No, this feels... different.
It is not an odd sight to stumble upon where Jaskier is concerned: a small stage has been raised outside the markets, and there Jaskier stands, his lute in his hands, performing a song he's only recently begun tapping into:
Is it not true that a bitter berry
Can taste sweet to another tongue?
If fortune favors the bold,
Then let the bold become us!
[He leans steps closer to the edge of the small stage, his coat sleeping behind him, and winks to a lovely lass in the front of his assembled crowd. As he steps down, plants begin to bloom at his feet, awing the crowd: flowers with spiked purple petals, with bright green leaves and stems that grow heavy with petals and clusters of unripe green berries.]
Let that dream of wine touch your tongue,
Let that empty hand hold gold.
[He holds out his hand, as the other strums the belly of the lute, and out of it flies a tiny chickadee, peeping its song in tune with his notes, and the pretty young lass brushes his hand.]
You will know the weight of gold.
I will know the weight of gold.
[The effect is not immediate, but once Jaskier has finished the performance and sits on the edge of the stage, stretching his hands, his eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed. And he watches, quietly, as the woman from before passes by a market stall and pockets a ring straight into a ruffle decorating her breast.
He drinks from a canteen from his bag, a bright, sour wine he recently purchased. One among many. Something about his thirst for it has come back. It's tasted so good lately.]