[In retrospect, Jaskier, possibly clearly, has no idea what he is doing.
He as sneaked around a lot in his life, but that was to avoid angry husbands coming in their wives' bedrooms to beam him with a rolling pin, or a butcher cleaver, or to pelt him with tomatoes (that happened once.) Now his heart is thrumming like a jackrabbit being struck with lightning.
Good gods, he's never even killed a man. Stabbing was -- twice, and one was mostly an accident. (Sorry, Geralt.)
For a moment, watching from around the corner, it feels like it might be. All right. It's certainly not the first time he's seen Geralt kill a man, but he does admit that. That it's usually with a sword. Those are his claws, aren't they? The night is fully dark but he can see flashes. Hear the noises of wet, tearing skin. Bile rises in his throat.
It's either panic or adrenaline that takes over him. The sizzle of silver on Geralt's skin is a sound he's heard once... when he was the one shoving silver scissors into a giant wolf's side before it could tear him apart. Jaskier runs into the alley without a sound -- unable to think of screaming or yelling Geralt's name or anything but what he is about to do:
He shoves the burning hot knife into the spine of a witch. What he thinks is the spine, at least. The reaction is immediate: the sound of flame catching cloth, and the scream, and how terrible and loud and real it is. As Jaskier stumbles back, his hands shaking, he grabs the bomb off of his belt and throws it at two men to the side, who have spun around to face him. The smoke erupts immediately, bathing them in what he knows is blue gas but appears black in the night. Both of their bodies drop to the ground.
He didn't plan beyond that. And suddenly he's frozen as the others turn to him, the knife still sticking out of the one witch's back, who has collapsed and folded in on himself, the sleep bomb emptied. This isn't some stupid bar fight. This is --
Ah, fuck.
A faun rams him, tossing him backwards, before he even recognizes she was even there.]
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He as sneaked around a lot in his life, but that was to avoid angry husbands coming in their wives' bedrooms to beam him with a rolling pin, or a butcher cleaver, or to pelt him with tomatoes (that happened once.) Now his heart is thrumming like a jackrabbit being struck with lightning.
Good gods, he's never even killed a man. Stabbing was -- twice, and one was mostly an accident. (Sorry, Geralt.)
For a moment, watching from around the corner, it feels like it might be. All right. It's certainly not the first time he's seen Geralt kill a man, but he does admit that. That it's usually with a sword. Those are his claws, aren't they? The night is fully dark but he can see flashes. Hear the noises of wet, tearing skin. Bile rises in his throat.
It's either panic or adrenaline that takes over him. The sizzle of silver on Geralt's skin is a sound he's heard once... when he was the one shoving silver scissors into a giant wolf's side before it could tear him apart. Jaskier runs into the alley without a sound -- unable to think of screaming or yelling Geralt's name or anything but what he is about to do:
He shoves the burning hot knife into the spine of a witch. What he thinks is the spine, at least. The reaction is immediate: the sound of flame catching cloth, and the scream, and how terrible and loud and real it is. As Jaskier stumbles back, his hands shaking, he grabs the bomb off of his belt and throws it at two men to the side, who have spun around to face him. The smoke erupts immediately, bathing them in what he knows is blue gas but appears black in the night. Both of their bodies drop to the ground.
He didn't plan beyond that. And suddenly he's frozen as the others turn to him, the knife still sticking out of the one witch's back, who has collapsed and folded in on himself, the sleep bomb emptied. This isn't some stupid bar fight. This is --
Ah, fuck.
A faun rams him, tossing him backwards, before he even recognizes she was even there.]