[She's right. It has been some time. Some time since they had not spent every waking moment figuring out a way to find the Witcher. To save him. Besides, this is perfect to ignore the world around them. To be far from this whole Dimming business.
Though to Jaskier, honestly, it's hardly about that.
He sighs. Now the topic has been broached, he... well, he actually would like to pursue it. Ciri, he trusts now, is someone who will actually listen. Who can offer more than silence or advice. She's quite perceptive, too; perhaps better than all of them.]
I don't blame you for not noticing. Plants die far too easily, after all. [He finally turns, lifting his mug to indicate the potted plants in the window. It could easily have been a lack of light, or a temperamental response to the cooler nights. The plants are dying, though. They have been, despite his efforts, though the rot always stars at the roots. When he walks by, they no longer shiver and reach for him.] No, nothing has happened. Not in particular.
[I simply have nightmares of waking up alone. To find blood spilled across the pillow, the floors. That I will be the one taken next. He returns to his seat and slides her newly filled mug across the table.] My writing has come back to me, and the muses sing once more. While that has improved, it... it feels like I'm going backwards. Like the magic is pulling away from me. Is it too strange to say I feel like it's dissatisfied with me? Far be it from me to personify any force I come into contact with, and yet. The bread molds, the plants die. And I can't get a good night of sleep.
no subject
Though to Jaskier, honestly, it's hardly about that.
He sighs. Now the topic has been broached, he... well, he actually would like to pursue it. Ciri, he trusts now, is someone who will actually listen. Who can offer more than silence or advice. She's quite perceptive, too; perhaps better than all of them.]
I don't blame you for not noticing. Plants die far too easily, after all. [He finally turns, lifting his mug to indicate the potted plants in the window. It could easily have been a lack of light, or a temperamental response to the cooler nights. The plants are dying, though. They have been, despite his efforts, though the rot always stars at the roots. When he walks by, they no longer shiver and reach for him.] No, nothing has happened. Not in particular.
[I simply have nightmares of waking up alone. To find blood spilled across the pillow, the floors. That I will be the one taken next. He returns to his seat and slides her newly filled mug across the table.] My writing has come back to me, and the muses sing once more. While that has improved, it... it feels like I'm going backwards. Like the magic is pulling away from me. Is it too strange to say I feel like it's dissatisfied with me? Far be it from me to personify any force I come into contact with, and yet. The bread molds, the plants die. And I can't get a good night of sleep.