[Through the rest of the trip, Jaskier still fills Geralt in. He doesn't feel anything he's said has made any deep points, mostly because a lot of it was the wine speaking (which does, sometimes, make him more morose than bubbly, he can admit.) A lot of his messages he doesn't really recall, but luckily he does recall the lyrics he sent Geralt in fragments of a shipwreck in the sea.
(He held onto Hector's ring while he sent the massage, fingertip circling where it hung from his neck.)
It is some time later he seeks solace in his domain, though honestly, it's mostly to check that Moglad hasn't broken any more branches or sat on another jewelwisp. Luckily, neither has happened, though there are a rather startling amount of empty wine bottles around Moglad's room when he peeks his head in.
Moglad rises, though, his pom lighting up bright. Master, you've returned! There's a gift, a gift, kupo! And he flutters, leading Jaskier to the table near the workshops where a lamp has been carefully placed, easily catching the eye, lighting the entranceway to the rooms.
He touches one of the birds. It's merely warm. You'll never believe who it's from, kupo!]
Geralt. [No. He does believe it.
Somehow it's the little lamp that lets him release a few tears he has been holding back -- once for every time he touched Rinwell's book, hiding it away with his songbook, or when he awoke and felt the cool bone ring against his naked skin. Two birds. Was it intentional? Isn't everything does intentional?
A hoot comes down from the rafter above him. There, sleepy-eyed, sits the puff of feathers that is Rinwell's owl. A mostly silent guardian.
He's rather attached himself to this bird motif, hasn't he?]
Moglad helped me weave a new spell. He calls it "moogle magic," can you imagine? It doesn't exactly flow off the tongue. What it does do, however, is ensure some things cannot be broken.
[And yes, they did work magic over it. Yes, it doesn't matter, because it's the Horizon. But it does. It matters just as much as the plants he waters, the leaves he plucks, dead in Bleobheris's branches. Yes, it matters brilliantly.]
no subject
(He held onto Hector's ring while he sent the massage, fingertip circling where it hung from his neck.)
It is some time later he seeks solace in his domain, though honestly, it's mostly to check that Moglad hasn't broken any more branches or sat on another jewelwisp. Luckily, neither has happened, though there are a rather startling amount of empty wine bottles around Moglad's room when he peeks his head in.
Moglad rises, though, his pom lighting up bright. Master, you've returned! There's a gift, a gift, kupo! And he flutters, leading Jaskier to the table near the workshops where a lamp has been carefully placed, easily catching the eye, lighting the entranceway to the rooms.
He touches one of the birds. It's merely warm. You'll never believe who it's from, kupo!]
Geralt. [No. He does believe it.
Somehow it's the little lamp that lets him release a few tears he has been holding back -- once for every time he touched Rinwell's book, hiding it away with his songbook, or when he awoke and felt the cool bone ring against his naked skin. Two birds. Was it intentional? Isn't everything does intentional?
A hoot comes down from the rafter above him. There, sleepy-eyed, sits the puff of feathers that is Rinwell's owl. A mostly silent guardian.
He's rather attached himself to this bird motif, hasn't he?]
Moglad helped me weave a new spell. He calls it "moogle magic," can you imagine? It doesn't exactly flow off the tongue. What it does do, however, is ensure some things cannot be broken.
[And yes, they did work magic over it. Yes, it doesn't matter, because it's the Horizon. But it does. It matters just as much as the plants he waters, the leaves he plucks, dead in Bleobheris's branches. Yes, it matters brilliantly.]