[Ah, the final loving words of the dearest Witcher.
It might be the same for Jaskier. In fact, it. It is. Everything about Nocwich is nostalgic. Perhaps that's why he feels such deep affinity for the wolves (though Sten being one of the most attractive men he's ever laid eyes on did not her.) And was it not the last season they spent together? What little time Jaskier was still in Kaer Morhen was still brutal winter, with snow pouring over the mountains, and the long hallways frozen to absolute quiet.
At least this place has some good bloody heating in place. But the life that the werewolves embrace -- this eternal night, the spirit of the woods, the nature surrounding them -- it was the life he lived once, too, before he found himself settling. For the elves. For those who he could help.]
And there will be two decades more, you cad. Be nice to Mog! [At least Jaskier has the decency to pull the blankets up around him and help his gryphon onto the bed. Which, as said gryphon begins walking over his legs and only just misses his groin, Jaskier recognizes he may have made a mistake.
He will not correct it, as Mog begins winding between them to his favorite spot: the top of Geralt's pillow.]
Very well. But only listen. I'm not asking for feedback. Not yet.
[He drinks a bit of wine from the nightstand, petting down Mog's back as he moves past. Then, he sings. It's clearly a song about Nocwich, invoking the night, and glowing golden eyes in the dark, of bodies moving together between skin and fur.
Now, with his newfound chaos, he knows it. He can describe it. The power of being human, and then flowing into a form that is decidedly not.]
no subject
It might be the same for Jaskier. In fact, it. It is. Everything about Nocwich is nostalgic. Perhaps that's why he feels such deep affinity for the wolves (though Sten being one of the most attractive men he's ever laid eyes on did not her.) And was it not the last season they spent together? What little time Jaskier was still in Kaer Morhen was still brutal winter, with snow pouring over the mountains, and the long hallways frozen to absolute quiet.
At least this place has some good bloody heating in place. But the life that the werewolves embrace -- this eternal night, the spirit of the woods, the nature surrounding them -- it was the life he lived once, too, before he found himself settling. For the elves. For those who he could help.]
And there will be two decades more, you cad. Be nice to Mog! [At least Jaskier has the decency to pull the blankets up around him and help his gryphon onto the bed. Which, as said gryphon begins walking over his legs and only just misses his groin, Jaskier recognizes he may have made a mistake.
He will not correct it, as Mog begins winding between them to his favorite spot: the top of Geralt's pillow.]
Very well. But only listen. I'm not asking for feedback. Not yet.
[He drinks a bit of wine from the nightstand, petting down Mog's back as he moves past. Then, he sings. It's clearly a song about Nocwich, invoking the night, and glowing golden eyes in the dark, of bodies moving together between skin and fur.
Now, with his newfound chaos, he knows it. He can describe it. The power of being human, and then flowing into a form that is decidedly not.]