With a snarl sharp enough to mimic the tear of another pennant ripping-- and silencing the twit at the edge of the room-- Geralt grabbed the side of the table and hauled himself to his feet. Jaskier had already gone 'round and he watched him from across the long expanse of rubbed walnut. "Come on, Jaskier," he called, leaping both booted feet onto the table in a too-easy motion. "You know how numerous your si..." his face contorted and his step down the length of the table slowed.
Inside his head Geralt was waging a war. The sound of ocean had lost its edge and he clawed and tore at the surf; it only foamed through his fingers but it was something. He ripped his hands against the stone prison of the cave, at the dense, wet sand under his feet. His body seemed to lose its momentum for a moment, and all the while Jaskier was sawing, sawing.
"Jaskier!" It was a yell, a rasp, a pained growl. Geralt snarled, pounding both fists against the table top and then launching himself forward--
Just in time for creak and snap of the last of the ropes in Jaskier's hands. The witcher did glance up as the rope caught the moonlight and the golden rainbows overhead shuddered against the walls as they began their descent-- it was the only reason that he slid on the polished table top instead of running headlong into plummeting glass. He hit his hip in what looked half-controlled and rolled to the side, but sometimes even Geralt of Rivia was too slow. The chandelier smashed against the table, against Geralt, with a truly ear-splitting cacophony. The witcher had been half off the table; the hundreds of pounds of iron and crystal caught his back and threw him down against the floor. He stay where he had landed, unmoving.
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Inside his head Geralt was waging a war. The sound of ocean had lost its edge and he clawed and tore at the surf; it only foamed through his fingers but it was something. He ripped his hands against the stone prison of the cave, at the dense, wet sand under his feet. His body seemed to lose its momentum for a moment, and all the while Jaskier was sawing, sawing.
"Jaskier!" It was a yell, a rasp, a pained growl. Geralt snarled, pounding both fists against the table top and then launching himself forward--
Just in time for creak and snap of the last of the ropes in Jaskier's hands. The witcher did glance up as the rope caught the moonlight and the golden rainbows overhead shuddered against the walls as they began their descent-- it was the only reason that he slid on the polished table top instead of running headlong into plummeting glass. He hit his hip in what looked half-controlled and rolled to the side, but sometimes even Geralt of Rivia was too slow. The chandelier smashed against the table, against Geralt, with a truly ear-splitting cacophony. The witcher had been half off the table; the hundreds of pounds of iron and crystal caught his back and threw him down against the floor. He stay where he had landed, unmoving.