middaeg | ( OPEN ) february catch-all

[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.]

Edited 2021-02-12 22:16 (UTC)

[ The second the smoke erupts in his vision, he knows exactly what it is. Who it is. Jaskier. Shit.

He takes advantage, snatching his dagger off the ground. It's slick with blood: the handle, his hands, the cobblestone. The last thing he wants is Jaskier's blood to join them, but it's far too fucking late to warn him to back off. His gaze flicks between the remaining assailants. Their hoods are up, features obscured, but the sound of hooves on stone is distinct.

The knife embeds in the faun's skull. Hard to say if they're doing this willingly or under the sway of another -- but there's no room to hesitate. He doesn't let himself stop to think about it, just sinks his claws into another.

Jaskier should not be fighting alongside him. Not even with the powers of a witch. The last thing he needs is them deciding Jaskier should be a target, too. ]

Get out of here.

[Jaskier sits up with a groan, his head spinning. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. It feels like something in his chest has cracked, like he's been hit full-on by a runaway carriage. Another monster. But this one isn't dead; no, that head was very much alive, the eyes that caught him in the dark like something to be annoyed by.

He flinches. The sound of a blade entering a man's skull is indescribable. He stumbles to his feet, coughing, catching himself on his cloak and nearly tripping on it.

His knife. Fuck.]

No! Fuck off! [He's a witch, gods damn it all, and he will not leave his Bonded to be attacked alone. Who the fuck knows why! But he can tell this isn't some petty squabble. Geralt does not kill for nothing. There is no hint of feral wildness in his eyes. When he nearly tore Jaskier's arm off, it was like his friend wasn't there at all.

Jaskier's fingertips glow as he shoots out a hand, growling Elder under his breath. His latest spell. He pushes it into the witch that's coming behind Geralt, heating him underneath his skin. And heating. And heating --

Until the witch drops his sword with a clatter. The one that almost went into Geralt's back.] Behind you!

Edited 2021-02-13 06:34 (UTC)

[ Fuck it all. (And Jaskier has the damn balls to call him stubborn.)

The second the sword hits the ground, Geralt has it in his hand. He brings it upward in a sharp arc -- not quite separating head from body, but close. The witch collapses either way.

He drops the sword, kicking aside the fallen length of chain. His skin still burns, blistering and starting to peel now. He'll look at it later. When they're back home. ]

Jaskier. [ He reaches down to haul Jaskier to his feet. There's a furrow in his brow as he checks him over for more than a few bruises. The faun slammed into him hard. ]

You okay?

[As abruptly as he found himself in the middle of a life-or-death battle, it's all over. In retrospect, as bloody mad as he was to wander into the aftermath of their finding the dragons up in the mountains, all in all it was much better to be at the end of it all. Not the thick of it.

Jaskier wobbles, dropping to his knees. Is this what a broken rib feels like? Ah, fuck. Every breath hurts.

He takes Geralt's hand anyway, getting back up. He wraps an arm around his middle, wincing.] I am so far from okay in every sense of the word. [But that's besides the point. He reaches out and places his hand on Geralt's neck. This magic comes easier, at least; this one he'd practiced for weeks after his feral attack. The blistered skin begins to heal.] You? Please don't say you've had worse. My heart can't take it right now.

[ He breathes out, a mixture of frustration and relief. Jaskier's reply is typical: it means he is, in fact, all right. Mostly. Geralt doesn't think the faun butted him hard enough to crack a rib -- his breathing would be different if it were -- but it's obviously tender.

The dagger comes out of the faun's skull with a wet sound; blood and fluid spill to the ground. Geralt slips it back into its sheathe. ]

Fine. [ He takes Jaskier's hand before the spell finishes healing and places it on Jaskier's ribs instead. ] Fix yourself first. We need to go.

Oh, gods. [His stomach turns. He does pull away from Geralt and turn around, cradling his stomach -- this time because he's very sure he's about to vomit, even though curving over makes his middle hurt even worse, the sharp throb of a new bruise.

He listens, though. Easier to do what he's told at the moment. He heals himself so he doesn't, in fact, collapse, because he knows just as well they need to go.]

I'm fine. [He stands again, the bruise at least a dull pain now. He hesitates, though.] I -- should we just leave them there? What did they want with you?

[ While Jaskier heals himself, Geralt returns to the bodies strewn on the ground. He digs through their pockets, coming up with nothing but scraps -- until the faun, a folded letter tucked away. He takes it without opening it yet. Later. When there's time.

They are, in fact, going to leave them there. What else are they going to do? Bury them? Geralt lets his pace answer the question, leaving the alleyway behind. ]

I followed them. [ He glances sidelong at Jaskier. The bard looks like shit, but he'll be okay. They just need to get home. ] You could've gotten killed.

Edited 2021-02-14 23:32 (UTC)

[It's much less about burying them than, er, hiding the bodies. Which is. Terrible. Oh, dear. Accessory to murder. He'd even -- maybe one of them --

He couldn't think of it. All he could remember was, in that moment, someone was hurting his friend. And it wasn't a fair fight. Which. Funny. He never used to worry terribly about Geralt. Not even here. And yet -- the sound of that sizzling flesh touching silver. It'd triggered something.

Or the bond had.

Jaskier wipes his lip on his sleeve, bleeding where he'd bitten it once the faun hit him.] Right, yes, because there's plenty in this world that can't kill me. Are you really going to do this now? After this fucking long? [He spits blood on the cobblestones, looking around for his dagger. It was a gift. It's important. He just... he won't look at their faces. (The one that Geralt cleaved in half.)] Where's my knife?

[ His grunt in reply suggests he won't, but only because he doesn't want to do it right now with Jaskier, specifically. He's already not happy he was caught off guard. The last thing he wanted was for Jaskier to have been hurt because of that.

He wraps some fabric around the burn on his palm and kicks Jaskier's dagger with its silver handle towards him. His eyes in the dark can spot the black spiderweb on the veins of some of the bodies. A spreading infection. He decides not to mention it to Jaskier. He doesn't think Jaskier received enough contact for it to spread. And if the city is too busy with its own problems, which it often is, it might be enough for the gruesome scene to be filed away as the cause of the infected gone mad. A common thing.

Either way, he has little interest in being near the scene when the sun rises. ] Let's go.

Edited 2021-02-16 00:41 (UTC)

[Much easier to focus on finding his knife. Dagger. Whatever. Ah! There it is.] Thank you. [He wouldn't be losing it tonight. Or ever. It was rare, and irreplaceable. Not the knife itself, really, but that GEralt had gone out of his way to give him a gift.

To keep him alive. A song could so easily be written about the irony, having used it to keep Geralt alive instead.

He wiped it off without looking too hard at it. Thankfully, being a witch hadn't given him night vision.

Jaskier has already made distance between himself and the bodies, and he's eager to get farther. Even if it feels incredibly wrong to simply walk away. Not that he has much sympathy for someone starting a fight with Geralt, but...

He walks to the opening of the alley, looking over to the right, the same path he'd taken as he followed. Something pulls at him. Sharply.]

Geralt. [He frowns.] There's more magic. Feel it?

[Coming closer. Is it more of them? In the distance, there's a footstep that stops abruptly.

Jaskier barely blinks in the time it takes. A portal rips open right beside him, a pair of clawed, scaled hands grabbing him around the middle. They rip him into the portal with blinding, desperate speed, his dagger slipping out of his hand in surprise. It knocks against the cobblestones as the portal closed, snapping shut into nothing.]

( OPEN ) february catch-all

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