[A lot has changed since he's been in the Horizon.
At least this time, the change was (mostly) intentional. As time went on, as Geralt trained Moglad more, as Jaskier pushed himself back into music. Moglad grew stronger. Dedicated enough that Jaskier even built him training dummies around back of the Bird's Nest simply so he could continue top his heart's content. Training, practicing Witcher signs (Geralt had never even mentioned them to him) until he came t oJaskier to proclaim The shadow is gone! It's gone, Master Jaskier!
He didn't need to ask what that meant. It was, after all, his domain.
The training didn't stop there. And then, out on a walk, he and Moglad discovered a little sprout of a tree growing between the cracked streets of Oxenfurt. Small, curled leaves. Green ones, though. Bright as lit emeralds.
So they had moved stone around it to give it room to grow. Watering, trimming branches, plucking off browned leaves. Together, he and Moglad had nurtured that sprout into a sapling.
Then the sapling to a tree.
It didn't surprise him what his mind pulled on, and once Jaskier realized what the sapling was destined to be, he went head-first into the idea of it. The concept. Something as simple as friendship. A touch of the home he would never return to with the home he lived in now. Nature mixing with the smallest touches of Cadens's technologies -- the fireless lights, the lamps hanging from branches reminiscent of the one Geralt had gifted him.
Speaking of. Jaskier feels him approach before Moglad ever comes to him with the exciting news: Geralt has come to see his new home. (Because of course the moogle has a lovely little room in Bleobheris all to himself, where he hangs his sword after a hard day of adventuring.
Jaskier pokes his head out of a workshop where he's been working on stitching together a book of his songs, his fingers still slightly tacky with glue. The shelves are lined with complete volumes and half-put-together tomes, with imprinted leather covers and long, flowing gold script down the spines.
He gives his friend a wide smile. It is the first time, for a long time, he truly feels himself again.] You like it. I can tell. [Jaskier looks around at it, gives a satisfied sigh, his hands on his hips.] I thought we deserved a piece of home. [His hand finds the wooden walls around them, tracing over the grain.] One of the last truly wonderful places I visited.
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At least this time, the change was (mostly) intentional. As time went on, as Geralt trained Moglad more, as Jaskier pushed himself back into music. Moglad grew stronger. Dedicated enough that Jaskier even built him training dummies around back of the Bird's Nest simply so he could continue top his heart's content. Training, practicing Witcher signs (Geralt had never even mentioned them to him) until he came t oJaskier to proclaim The shadow is gone! It's gone, Master Jaskier!
He didn't need to ask what that meant. It was, after all, his domain.
The training didn't stop there. And then, out on a walk, he and Moglad discovered a little sprout of a tree growing between the cracked streets of Oxenfurt. Small, curled leaves. Green ones, though. Bright as lit emeralds.
So they had moved stone around it to give it room to grow. Watering, trimming branches, plucking off browned leaves. Together, he and Moglad had nurtured that sprout into a sapling.
Then the sapling to a tree.
It didn't surprise him what his mind pulled on, and once Jaskier realized what the sapling was destined to be, he went head-first into the idea of it. The concept. Something as simple as friendship. A touch of the home he would never return to with the home he lived in now. Nature mixing with the smallest touches of Cadens's technologies -- the fireless lights, the lamps hanging from branches reminiscent of the one Geralt had gifted him.
Speaking of. Jaskier feels him approach before Moglad ever comes to him with the exciting news: Geralt has come to see his new home. (Because of course the moogle has a lovely little room in Bleobheris all to himself, where he hangs his sword after a hard day of adventuring.
Jaskier pokes his head out of a workshop where he's been working on stitching together a book of his songs, his fingers still slightly tacky with glue. The shelves are lined with complete volumes and half-put-together tomes, with imprinted leather covers and long, flowing gold script down the spines.
He gives his friend a wide smile. It is the first time, for a long time, he truly feels himself again.] You like it. I can tell. [Jaskier looks around at it, gives a satisfied sigh, his hands on his hips.] I thought we deserved a piece of home. [His hand finds the wooden walls around them, tracing over the grain.] One of the last truly wonderful places I visited.