Jaskier "old-timey fuckboy" Alfred Pankratz (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cointosser) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
middaeg2020-09-07 11:56 am
cointosser) wrote in middaeg2020-09-07 11:56 am
Entry tags:
[OPEN] I know you're strong enough to do this on your own. ♫
Who: Jaskier and ♪ You ♪.
When: September, or in the language of the common folk, Septeril.
Where: Those places. You know the ones.
What: Jaskier making up for his now pampered lifestyle (electricity! running water!!) by putting himself in increasingly dangerous situations.
Warnings: Just some gory stuff from his memories, probably.
I. Playwritin'. Septeril 6, Dorchacht, morning.
II. Apple A Day. Septeril 8, Aegenflom, early evening.
III. Weapon Testing. Septeril 9, Aegenflom, afternoon.
IV. Wild Card. Early to mid-Septeril, Aegenflom, various times.
When: September, or in the language of the common folk, Septeril.
Where: Those places. You know the ones.
What: Jaskier making up for his now pampered lifestyle (electricity! running water!!) by putting himself in increasingly dangerous situations.
Warnings: Just some gory stuff from his memories, probably.
I. Playwritin'. Septeril 6, Dorchacht, morning.
[ Being the most talented bard that the Continent has ever had the pleasure to know -- and the horror to lose -- it is only inevitable that Jaskier would offer his services in aiding the education of the next crop of bright-eyed musicians. And with the chance to expand his reputation past the confines of Aefenglom's walls, Jaskier is eager to make his way to Dorchacht.
A short-lived eagerness once he heads into a city that is far from the shining potential that he'd, er, hoped for. Look, he's been a bit preoccupied with his settling in Aefenglom, his best friend becoming a monster, and his contorted, conflicting feelings about Yennefer, which used to be much more straightforward before the first full moon.
Well, that's all right. They're just recovering from... oof. Absolute rebellion.
Cutting it a little too close to home. However, Jaskier is quite far form the ministrations of the Nilgaardian empire now. Though he's a bit out of the loop on the news, his volunteering for the scripting and sheet music for the play clearly help him catch up on a child's point of view of the rebellion. Your typical one, if you were the type to write about them. It feels all a bit separated from him when he was not here to watch it.
Jaskier's stints as a tutor at Oxenfort help him, er, minimally. The problem being his fellow students were not exactly children when he was working as a tutor on the side. He forgot how much they talked. (He knew Geralt would laugh at the irony.) Jaskier, being a chatterbox himself, tries to keep up, if not talk even more than the children while teaching.
Feel free to catch Jaskier nearly passed out on a bench somewhere, recovering from having the energy to overtalk several children before his age smacked him over the head after several hours of it. A pile of inked and half-scratched out sheets of music surround him.
Or: Jaskier on a small stage they've built from, basically, a bit of rubble, bricks holding up a flat bit of wood. Several children recite the pages they wrote together, and though the notes are not exactly perfect, there's clear effort put into them. You had better not ignore the baskets nearby clearly labeled for donations, both monetary or otherwise. Jaskier will pin you down with a glare if you pass by without pause, and he has assigned two rather rowdy, rusty-looking boys to follow you around and shame you for being a cheapskate.
Or, finally: come see Jaskier peeking out from the side as the play holds its first (perhaps only) showing, as the children recite a bit more confidently, pantomiming a great battle that is only made of about five or six children armed with sticks. In typical Jaskier fashion, the story is not fully the truth. But it certainly sounds heroic and breathtaking, a legend in the making. ]
II. Apple A Day. Septeril 8, Aegenflom, early evening.
[ There's certainly something to be said for the sort of day-to-day life Jaskier now lives in Aefenglom. None of those weeks of clomping along dirt paths, surviving off dried nuts and meat for days upon days, drawing water from wells along the way and hoping they're not haunted by some angry dead woman (it's happened before, all right?)
To put it succinctly, he's a bit spoiled.
It's made him restless. Jaskier has always been quite restless, but certainly now he's expending all the extra energy he has from his refocused magic through the bond. Extra lessons at the Coven, playing in the taverns several times a week, and of course, taking on these extra tasks for a bit more coin. His tastes are, unfortunately, quite expensive. His cottage doesn't decorate itself.
Of course menial labor like picking apples is not his usual interest. And, truthfully, he didn't come for the apples. Being restless makes Jaskier go out and do things. And, further, gives him terrible ideas.
He came for the moths. (All right, and a few apples. Apples are delicious.) He has in his head the idea of crafting his next mixture with a bit of the moth's dust to create a new weapon that is, essentially, the most efficient way to tell someone to fuck off.
It's an awful, terrible idea. Will it stop him?
Well, it will after he miscatches the first moth and disturbs a whole nest of them. The dust catches him in the eye, making him sneeze.
And catching the dust ends with Jaskier desperately trying to climb an apple tree, screaming, brandishing a dagger at a snarling, bear-sized rabid wolf that is snapping at his heels. Desperate for another taste. If you were unlucky, the golden eyes and the medallion around its neck might look familiar. ]
III. Weapon Testing. Septeril 9, Aegenflom, afternoon.
[ Suffice to say, the idea with the moths -- while Jaskier would argue it was wickedly clever -- did not work. For one, during his attempts to harvest their dust he was stalked by a vision of a wolfed-out Geralt attempting to literally tear him apart which was terribly unfun, and for another, he had a guard threaten to beat him for even contemplating bringing one of the moth's larvae back inside Aefenglom.
Which. Er. Fair.
It was back to the drawing board, then. Perfecting the two weapons he had already crafted, both with Geralt's input and Percy's additions to the timing mechanism of what he could only really think to call bombs, though they were more fairly potions than anything.
If you're in the neighborhood, Jaskier is just inside the garden in front of his cottage, where he's begun working on growing a box of herbs and small wildflowers. If you walk close enough, you might be just in time to see a small puff of purple smoke rise up from something in his hands... and promptly watch him slump over, asleep.
He pops awake a moment or so later, yawning. He rubs his eyes. Right. Still off on the timing. ]
IV. Wild Card. Early to mid-Septeril, Aegenflom, various times.
[ Jaskier is becoming a well-known frequent performer at Aefenglom's various taverns as well as just outside the city walls, where he has frequently gone to entertain the Cwyld-infected population that live there. He can easily be caught between songs for a drink (if you catch his eye, you're guaranteed a free one on him) or a bit of chatter, possibly mostly from his side.
It's not hard to catch a man dressed head to boot in bright blues and reds, strumming a lute and singing loudly. If you've met Geralt, you're sure to catch his name and some of his exploits as a monster hunter in Jaskier's ballads. Please feel free to ask about him so Jaskier can ruin his life by telling everyone they're bonded. ]
no subject
That doesn't mean he's expecting any potential rescuees to be upset when they see the guy prepared to handle the situation show up and ask him...not to fight the monster?
Which is why Nero frowns instantly, lip turning upwards as he shifts his gaze to the guy dangling from the tree. ]
What?
[ Is this guy crazy? The wolf looks actually rabid. That's foam. That's definitely mouth foam. He cock his head towards said animal ]
Is this your dog?
[ He keeps his hand on the sword, though. ]
no subject
Or is it derogatory?
Not important!]
He's -- [Ah, fuck.] Geralt, you stupid bastard, look over here! [The wolf had begun turning a bit too much attention to the man with the sword, and horribly he recalls how Geralt reacted even worse when Jaskier had his own weapon last time. Wiggling about on the branch, he grabs hold of a pinecone of some sort, lobbing it at the wolf.
It doesn't hit him, but Geralt does turn his eyes back on him. Jaskier swallows bile down.] He's my friend, I -- [The way Geralt is looking at him is not friendly in the least bit. In fact, the gold of his eyes is somehow turning fiery red. Jaskier's arms begin going numb from how tightly he is holding onto his branch.] He's feral, it's the full moon --
[It may be very easy to note that the full moon has been over for several days and is almost a half-moon already. And whether it's because Geralt is tired of hearing him talk (likely) or because he is no longer content simply looking menacing, he claws at the tree trunk and, from the strength of his size, begins climbing, straight for the bard.
Jaskier yelps, his grip slipping. Ah, so his final options right before death are dismemberment and being eaten, or breaking his neck from a fall. Wonderful.]
no subject
And then the guy confirms it. A friend, feral, full moon--but Nero just frowns, glancing up at the sky. ]
You're kinda off there, pal.
[ No full moon in sight.
So maybe this is a misunderstanding, but whatever is really going on here, he can't stand by idling while someone gets mauled to death by a wolf, friend or not. So when he sees the slipping, Nero groans and rushes forward, doing what only seems appropriate--
--And that's fucking roundhouse kicking the wolf out of the way.
At least Nero will break Jaskier's fall. ]
no subject
But he certainly won't be implied to be a fool! He looks up and the moon is clearly there, staring them down, with a horrible sort of red sheen to it. It's unbelievably large, actually and he --]
Fuck, fuck, wait!
[The squeal of the wolf scorches through him and he jerks his gaze back down. Except he felt nothing. Literally. No physical hint that Geralt did, in fact, just -- just get kicked in the face --
Jaskier gives a very unwieldy shout as his grip slips and he finally falls. Right on top of his would-be saviour. Collapsing like a bunch of dead weight as he expects Geralt to recover quickly (as he always has) to now tear two victims apart.
And then there's nothing. Well, at least from Geralt. Jaskier is... his brain, at this point, has ceased to be.] Did you just kick a wolf in the face? You just kicked him in the bloody face!
no subject
Because he landed on his ass and then this guy's ass landed on him. It doesn't make the kick satisfying enough. ]
Yeah!
[ Nero groans, already making to push the other man off of him so he can get back up on his feet. Despite the fact that Nero is clearly making an effort to spare him getting mauled to death-- ]
You want me t' let him go to town next time?
[ Get eaten, see if he cares! ]
If that's really your friend then tell 'em to knock it the hell off!
no subject
No! Yes? It's complicated, all right!
[He got up quickly, heart thundering in his chest. Between one dangerous white-haired man and, er, the one that was a wolf right now, it was rather hard to pick which one may be less likely to hurt him. (He'll appreciate the help at some point.) He backs up when Geralt reminds him he's standing only feet away now, drool dripping from his bared teeth. Jaskier's back hits one of the apple trees, a black flutter of wings flying past his head.
His eyes widen. Geralt takes his moment, leaping for him. Just like before, his weight smashes Jaskier against the ground, the teeth tearing at his arm as he yells. And yet in the surge of pain-not-pain (no, it's quite real, his luck is only that he'd be attacked the same way twice) he can only think not again. Even the gift Geralt had given him, the small silver switchblade, is forgotten in his struggle to kick the giant Turnskin off again. And yet even as he kicks, his legs can't seem to find purchase. Like the weight of the wolf doesn't exist in the air above him.]
no subject
To death, at least.
With a grunt, he stands and whips out the Red Queen from his back. ]
If you're not gonna do it--
[ He charges forward again, swinging his blade out in a wide arc. Under normal circumstances, she would slice right through the belly of the beast. But instead--much like when he'd tried to kick it--the Red Queen flies right through. ]
--What the hell?
[ He goes for it again.
Nope, same result.
Well, call him dumbfounded and dumbfucked. ]
Is your friend a friggin' ghost?
no subject
A second schism, actually. In that the sword goes straight through the wolf. Through him. The exact opposite of the silver shears that had saved his life last time.
The nightmare wavers.]
No. [He'd know. He'd know immediately if anything happened. The Bond would not let it remain a secret. Jaskier finally shoves the -- the ghost? wolf? -- back to grab the knife out of his pocket, the blade extending at once. He shoves it into Geralt's side.
And. Nothing.]
It's not real. [Geralt pauses, backing up, as Jaskier scoots backwards, though when he looks down his arm is torn apart again, bleeding, muscle and the white of bone showing through.] At least -- fuck. The moths. I think. You heard about the moths, right?