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To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.
To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.
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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.
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This is not like losing a loved one to heart break. Not even to plague. Jaskier does not know what happened to him. He will never know.
(Please, let Rinwell be with her friends. Please. Let Hector have found others. And, selfishly, please do not let me be forgotten.)
Yet a response does come. The question makes him laugh out loud, and though the others question it, he can't really explain it. It is something between Geralt and himself.
Jaskier goes to the Ho rizon once they are safely back in their room to meet the newest addition to Bleobheris's branches. He adores the creature nearly instantly; he is sure Hector would've been enamored with it. And even though its hoot is a little unnerving, Jaskier hardly notices it is not like a normal owl at all. When he first visits to see its color, to determine its name, he lets it roost on his shoulder. He introduces it to the goldfinch. And as they familiarize, calling to each other, they take to the sky side by side.
He finds the name easily.]
Marjon.
[Bitter. For the memories the owl will bring. Bitter. Bitter, but sweet.]
It sounds a bit like your grunts.
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He skirts a nest of sand scorpions. Makes camp. Sees the message in the smoke. ]
A rare compliment.
[ No name for his owl, of course. The only creature in his domain that bears a name is Roach. ]
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[And he leaves it there for a bit. A few lovely, relaxing days pass, and then Jaskier tells Geralt of something he must. Of the utmost importance.
Possibly the most impossible thing he's ever seen.]
Nadine's a wolf and wrestling Mog. I don't even know if the finest of poets could put into words what this scene makes a man feel. Though he could possibly start with affectionate confusion.
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And have you taken your turn wrestling Mog?
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It has not even occurred to him that Geralt is unaware of Nadine's ability.]
As handsome as they look on you, I do not wish to be covered in scars.
How fares your desert so far? Hope you're making friends XOXO
[The last addition is from Julie, surely, and Jaskier has attached himself to the idea of an affectionate sign-off. For letters, even! How quaint.]
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Only ones with teeth and claws.
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[He sends a few more messages as he gets progressively drunker, most of them half-written lyrics and, of course, a customary:]
I love you, Geralt. Even if you come home from the desert stinking like a dog. Like -- like, oh! One of those Redanian hunting hounds that always look very dour, but occasionally you see the smallest shake of their tail.
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No. It's the other bit. Regarding his. Tail. Theoretical tail. ]
Jaskier.
The fuck are you on about.
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[He is well and truly drunk now. White girl drunk. Perhaps a level beyond.
Jaskier mostly cannot help it. He has never had a true vacation, not like this. Away from the career he is building (even if he is attempting to spread his name to Aquila when he's far more sober), with a lover who turns to a wolf, mentally connected to his best friend in order to update him on every facet of the adventure, instead of relying on a letter that will never arrive.
It's a strange life here, but it's a good one overall. Despite the things he remembers now, he's... recovering. Things are still bright.]
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But knowing and being told, so explicitly, are two different things. And he is not a man who often puts what's most important to him into words.
So he does not. Instead, the next time Jaskier visits his domain, he will find Moglad drinking by magical luminesce of a bird-shaped light. The graceful design suggests Geralt likely received some assistance on how it should appear. Who from? Fuck knows. Maybe it was one person, maybe several. Maybe he created it after seeing something like it in the Aquila markets. Geralt will not say. He will not, in fact, acknowledge the lamp at all or that he gifted it—though the moogle naturally will not be able to keep this information to itself. ]
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(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.]
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Revisit it, he thinks, for certain. Leaving it there now that he knows it exists leaves him uneasy. If something were to happen...
He's resting in the shade of another cavern during the afternoon sun when Jaskier's message arrives. Geralt chews on some bean pods picked off a tree and dried meat he packed along, the weather too hot to bother hunting for a meal until nightfall. Jaskier, too, says nothing directly of the lantern. But he knows exactly what his friend means.
A quiet fondness rises in his chest. It is a feeling that does not at all transfer when he replies. ]
How in the fuck does a moogle learn to weave new spells?
I only taught him one Sign.
[ Moglad is evolving a bit past what Geralt intended when he started training that creature. He's seen it lift its sword and summon its spiky armor. It's Jaskier's doing, of course—the creature and Jaskier are connected—but nonetheless. The fact that Moglad speaks to him, even when Jaskier is not present, makes it difficult to remember that it is not really a sentient creature but a creation of the Horizon like everything else. ]
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[All right, there's nothing poor about Moglad. He's bloody spoiled rotten, drinks as much as he wants, sleeps most of the time and then spends all his other waking hours fluttering around a small paradise. He's even taken to leaving the tree, sometimes, when he feels it's safe again, his sword at his side.
Wait.]
What on -- when the fuck did you teach him a sign? Are you insane? It wasn't Igni, was it? Even you would not be so stupid, surely. Moglad's drunk about as often as he's sober.
[He calms himself. There isn't a chance Geralt would do it, but he has to say it anyway.] Well, apparently moogles have a natural affinity towards magic. He told me he "wants to keep the flames of life burning." I think he's begun reading poetry.
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Except when I'm there to teach him.
[ Which is only because Geralt will not train him otherwise. ]
He learned Aard.
Seems to use it to spin himself in the air.
[ If he recognizes Jaskier's momentary distress through the rush of words, he makes no comment on it. Something tells him the moogle would not be capable of learning a spell Jaskier would not want him to learn, anyhow. Besides, he isn't seriously training Moglad. Not really. It's still only something to do, when he's in the Horizon, and he's perhaps found it a bit entertaining that the creature has taken surprisingly well to some of the lessons.
Geralt will not grant him a sharp sword, however. The blade the moogle carries continues to be dull steel at the edges with a rounded tip. But he has got a small dull dagger to go along with it now, which is little more than a toothpick to any actual person. ]
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[Which is enough for him. Besides, he is the very last person to get on Moglad's case for wanting to be drunk. (In some ways, he's afraid he --)
Himeka has told him before that moogles simply love to drink, though. That it does not come from him.
Aard. Aard makes sense. And while it could be destructive, he can trust Moglad not to hurt anything. Or anyone.
To use it to amuse himself.]
Don't be jealous you didn't think of it first.
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That's likely how Moglad discovered he can propel himself in the air, now that Geralt thinks about it.
He frowns. Wait. What does that mean? He can't fly. (Would be useful, though.) ]
I haven't got wings, Jaskier.
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Go to sleep.
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