[ Geralt, almost, can sense that Jaskier's not finished his thought. He lets the message fade against the cliffside he is scaling. Does not respond until the sun has set and he's set up under the moon. It's a clear night—no signs of a dust storm gathering like he thought.
His chest is heavy. He stares at the stars above as Jaskier's script hangs in the night sky and slowly vanishes.
He searches for some words of comfort. They scrape against his mind and crumble. Maybe Jaskier will glimpse a few half-finished letters and words before a real message arrives. ]
no subject
His chest is heavy. He stares at the stars above as Jaskier's script hangs in the night sky and slowly vanishes.
He searches for some words of comfort. They scrape against his mind and crumble. Maybe Jaskier will glimpse a few half-finished letters and words before a real message arrives. ]
What will you name it.