Geralt's voice resounded through the villa in the same way the ocean noise did--it rolled over distance and crashed against walls and left a sucking terrible silence in its wake. Unlike the ocean, no other sound came crashing in to refill the space the Witcher's--the imposter's?--voice left in its wake.
Jaskier ran.
His feet carried him forward into the dark at a dead run, powered by fear and pain, edged on by the promise of escape. His eyes weren't nearly up to the task of parsing the pitch darkness of the villa, but they were wide with his terror and he could make out the hazy shapes of walls and obstructions. Mostly.
Jaskier turned a corner and his shin and hip caught on a fancy lounger set in the middle of the hall. He toppled over it and the chair punched the air out of him as he crashed and tumbled. He landed on his ass on the plush rug and gaped sileny. It was almost lucky that he'd stunned himself, no matter how much ground it let his pursuer gain.
Fuck--what was he going to do? He was going to be killed in some fucking villa in Cidaris. Was that Geralt? Was it a near copy? Was he hallucinating? Had the wine been poisoned? Was that a demon? Where in the actual, everloving fuck was everyone?
Everyone.
Jaskier couldn't--he lacked the ability to overpower the Witcher, but there was safety to be had in numbers. No one who had ever assailed him before had done so in full fucking view. Someone could help him, if not to fight then to escape before...whatever that was could beat him into the pristine marble floors.
Jaskier scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the nearest doorway. He flung the door open but it behaved strangely--it jerked, mid-swing, almost like someone had tried to catch it and it slipped their grip. He darted inside just as the door snapped shut and fumbled blindly as his eyes strained to adjust.
This was a...study?
Jaskier's hands found taxidermied creatures, cool leather clad chairs, the room stank of old tobacco, of familiar, old cologne, and--his hand clipped a tray too boldly and sent a decanter and crystal glasses to the floor. The smell of spilled whisky was strong and he backed up quickly. His thoughts raced and he stumbled toward the far side of the room.
Villas like this had servants' halls. This one did--he knew it did. There would be a door on the back wall, or a dumbwaiter, something--fuck, he'd take a balcony if he had to.
no subject
Jaskier ran.
His feet carried him forward into the dark at a dead run, powered by fear and pain, edged on by the promise of escape. His eyes weren't nearly up to the task of parsing the pitch darkness of the villa, but they were wide with his terror and he could make out the hazy shapes of walls and obstructions. Mostly.
Jaskier turned a corner and his shin and hip caught on a fancy lounger set in the middle of the hall. He toppled over it and the chair punched the air out of him as he crashed and tumbled. He landed on his ass on the plush rug and gaped sileny. It was almost lucky that he'd stunned himself, no matter how much ground it let his pursuer gain.
Fuck--what was he going to do? He was going to be killed in some fucking villa in Cidaris. Was that Geralt? Was it a near copy? Was he hallucinating? Had the wine been poisoned? Was that a demon? Where in the actual, everloving fuck was everyone?
Everyone.
Jaskier couldn't--he lacked the ability to overpower the Witcher, but there was safety to be had in numbers. No one who had ever assailed him before had done so in full fucking view. Someone could help him, if not to fight then to escape before...whatever that was could beat him into the pristine marble floors.
Jaskier scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the nearest doorway. He flung the door open but it behaved strangely--it jerked, mid-swing, almost like someone had tried to catch it and it slipped their grip. He darted inside just as the door snapped shut and fumbled blindly as his eyes strained to adjust.
This was a...study?
Jaskier's hands found taxidermied creatures, cool leather clad chairs, the room stank of old tobacco, of familiar, old cologne, and--his hand clipped a tray too boldly and sent a decanter and crystal glasses to the floor. The smell of spilled whisky was strong and he backed up quickly. His thoughts raced and he stumbled toward the far side of the room.
Villas like this had servants' halls. This one did--he knew it did. There would be a door on the back wall, or a dumbwaiter, something--fuck, he'd take a balcony if he had to.