It's not entirely quite the reaction he expects, but with so many years with someone like Geralt, he doesn't quite take offense. The golden dragon on his palm lifts with a hard flap of its wings, spinning through the air, then disappearing -- hardly a spark left behind to prove he was ever really there. Him, or his warriors.
It may be that this place is entirely Jaskier's, borne of his soul and his desires. He can feel the air change like it expands with the promise of a storm. His heart skips a beat, and Jaskier rises from his chair. He's not sure what he is entirely expected to do here, so he simply waits.
Mostly. He can't help but call Estinien's name, worried that something has... happened. Changed. Estinien isn't the most emotionally steady person he's ever met, but he seems to quite enjoy speaking of dragons. Was it seeing Villentretenmerth? But why? Honestly, he was a kindly old man himself.
Oh.
He was very incorrect.
Jaskier takes a step back, and then a second, as the vines begin to whip against their trellises. His horses in the distance give panicked whinnies loud enough to be caught over the rising winds, and they take off together for the wine cellar's shed for shelter. His heart skips a beat as the first echo of the shade begins surrounding his friend. It's dark, this swirling magic that is almost like violence, clawing at the air as it rises around him. Spread, sharp wings, the wild curl of horns.
His eyes widen, breath stilled in his lungs, as the dragon's shade -- and without guessing, he already believes it must be that stray soul Estinien one told him of -- raises its head and screams.
For even though the roar is of a beast, that is, without inarguably, what it is. A scream, and then something like a song. It's not human, certainly, and at first it only exhibits as sounds. Raw, wretched sounds. He goes still, hand clenching so tightly to the back of his chair that his knuckles turn white.
Soon enough, it is not just sounds. It is not simply notes. It is... horrible, and beautiful. The words, as he catches them, are claws, scraping his ribs raw. Snaking around his heart, squeezing it.
He doesn't know what the tears start, but they do. They roll down his cheeks as he stares up at this ghost of a soul so large that he cannot even imagine how one body can carry it. With this wealth of pain, and angry, of torment, of destruction.
Gods. It's far too much. As the last notes shatter through the sky of his quiet, calm little vineyard, he gasps. His lungs burn. He'd stopped catching his breaths.
What does one even say after that? How do human songs ever compare?
His voice is hardly a whisper. "Oh."
Jaskier is not even certain he understood what he's heard.
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It may be that this place is entirely Jaskier's, borne of his soul and his desires. He can feel the air change like it expands with the promise of a storm. His heart skips a beat, and Jaskier rises from his chair. He's not sure what he is entirely expected to do here, so he simply waits.
Mostly. He can't help but call Estinien's name, worried that something has... happened. Changed. Estinien isn't the most emotionally steady person he's ever met, but he seems to quite enjoy speaking of dragons. Was it seeing Villentretenmerth? But why? Honestly, he was a kindly old man himself.
Oh.
He was very incorrect.
Jaskier takes a step back, and then a second, as the vines begin to whip against their trellises. His horses in the distance give panicked whinnies loud enough to be caught over the rising winds, and they take off together for the wine cellar's shed for shelter. His heart skips a beat as the first echo of the shade begins surrounding his friend. It's dark, this swirling magic that is almost like violence, clawing at the air as it rises around him. Spread, sharp wings, the wild curl of horns.
His eyes widen, breath stilled in his lungs, as the dragon's shade -- and without guessing, he already believes it must be that stray soul Estinien one told him of -- raises its head and screams.
For even though the roar is of a beast, that is, without inarguably, what it is. A scream, and then something like a song. It's not human, certainly, and at first it only exhibits as sounds. Raw, wretched sounds. He goes still, hand clenching so tightly to the back of his chair that his knuckles turn white.
Soon enough, it is not just sounds. It is not simply notes. It is... horrible, and beautiful. The words, as he catches them, are claws, scraping his ribs raw. Snaking around his heart, squeezing it.
He doesn't know what the tears start, but they do. They roll down his cheeks as he stares up at this ghost of a soul so large that he cannot even imagine how one body can carry it. With this wealth of pain, and angry, of torment, of destruction.
Gods. It's far too much. As the last notes shatter through the sky of his quiet, calm little vineyard, he gasps. His lungs burn. He'd stopped catching his breaths.
What does one even say after that? How do human songs ever compare?
His voice is hardly a whisper. "Oh."
Jaskier is not even certain he understood what he's heard.