If you hate to smell my sadness, then stop making me sad in the first place.
He's two seconds away from saying exactly that, but a glance makes him aware of the wrongness again -the scar, the white shirt, that beard- and the words get stuck in his throat.
If you want to help, then send me to Oxenfurt.
Except he's already ruled that one out too, hasn't he? His bratty nature is trying his best, but sadly Jaskier has to accept the truth once again: beggars can't be choosers - he's stuck in an awful situation, and running away is actually the worst option. Even worse than heartbreak.
At least notGeralt brings up a topic that Jaskier can concentrate his negative feelings on, and so he puffs up as he puts his things on another chair before sitting down across the witcher, huffing yet managing to be gentle to his lute anyway. Oh boy, here comes the rant.
"AND my quills as well!" He replies with the highest indignation as he pours tea in his cup, but not before opening his doublet to show the delicate chemise under it. It seems notGeralt's warning is coming too late, Jaskier has already been through that terrifying experience too. "Including the golden one I got in Vizima! And that dimwitted shit-dripping lute-torturer son of a hymm had the NERVE to smile at me to show me all the little sparkly barbs sticking to his repulsive teeth!"
The way he tells it, one believe it actually happened instead of being a drug-induced hallucination. But this is Jaskier, storyteller extraordinaire, famous for his songs for a reason. And as far as his emotions go, Valdo Marx deserves to be insulted in any occasion that lends itself for it, even imaginary ones.
There's more where that came from (when isn't there?) but Jaskier chooses this pause to bite on a papal cream and he instantly deflates, head angled back just a little it as he hums with delight.
"Melitele's tits, these are good." He tilts his head and yells in the general direction of the hallway, completely sure a maid must be waiting nearby in case 'the lord of the house' (snort) needs something extra for his breakfast. "My compliments to the chef, for their fine pastries have appeased this humble bard's sweet cravings!"
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He's two seconds away from saying exactly that, but a glance makes him aware of the wrongness again -the scar, the white shirt, that beard- and the words get stuck in his throat.
If you want to help, then send me to Oxenfurt.
Except he's already ruled that one out too, hasn't he? His bratty nature is trying his best, but sadly Jaskier has to accept the truth once again: beggars can't be choosers - he's stuck in an awful situation, and running away is actually the worst option. Even worse than heartbreak.
At least notGeralt brings up a topic that Jaskier can concentrate his negative feelings on, and so he puffs up as he puts his things on another chair before sitting down across the witcher, huffing yet managing to be gentle to his lute anyway. Oh boy, here comes the rant.
"AND my quills as well!" He replies with the highest indignation as he pours tea in his cup, but not before opening his doublet to show the delicate chemise under it. It seems notGeralt's warning is coming too late, Jaskier has already been through that terrifying experience too. "Including the golden one I got in Vizima! And that dimwitted shit-dripping lute-torturer son of a hymm had the NERVE to smile at me to show me all the little sparkly barbs sticking to his repulsive teeth!"
The way he tells it, one believe it actually happened instead of being a drug-induced hallucination. But this is Jaskier, storyteller extraordinaire, famous for his songs for a reason. And as far as his emotions go, Valdo Marx deserves to be insulted in any occasion that lends itself for it, even imaginary ones.
There's more where that came from (when isn't there?) but Jaskier chooses this pause to bite on a papal cream and he instantly deflates, head angled back just a little it as he hums with delight.
"Melitele's tits, these are good." He tilts his head and yells in the general direction of the hallway, completely sure a maid must be waiting nearby in case 'the lord of the house' (snort) needs something extra for his breakfast. "My compliments to the chef, for their fine pastries have appeased this humble bard's sweet cravings!"
Humble. Right. Whatever you say, Jaskier.