Geralt went crashing past him as Jaskier stumbled. He nearly caught him there--the tear of silk had been the bard's only salvation. He was yanked off kilter, twisted as Geralt hit the curio shelves and sent all manner of trinkets and delicate, decorative nonsense to the floor.
Jaskier hit the ground hard, took it hip and elbow as he was sent sprawling, and for a moment it was all he could do to watch the Witcher before him. He snarled, his expression placid even through that awful sound, and his hands ripped the fabric and that pennant savagely. He advanced and Jaskier's boots scrambled against the hardwood as he hurried to stand--
Then, to Jaskier's shock, the Witcher faltered.
He gasped and staggered, fell to a knee then to all fours, and those gold eyes locked on him. For the barest moment, he knew that face.
This wasn't--this was no monster--
It--he was Geralt--
Jaskier's eyes widened and watered--there was a desperate sort of recognition in those gold eyes--and then, as soon as the expression dawned, he was pulled under again. Jaskier watched as Geralt's eyes blanked, as his face smoothed, and he began to understand.
That awful, horrible bitch--
The bard's dudden, rising fury was not something he could indulge in. He had a bare moment to put it all together before Geralt leapt for him, sprang up from the floor like a wolf diving at prey. Jaskier twisted frantically, spun through the gaping doorway and narrowly avoided the Witcher's hands. His hip radiated pain as he forced himself back into a dead run--it slowed him, in truth, but he was suddenly too distracted to really notice. Jaskier raced toward the ballroom and his eyes danced frantically across the walls of the dark hallway--Geralt had been freed when he tore that fucking hideous pennant--
Of course there was a spell--of course it was cruel--fuck, why hadn't he remembered this place sooner? She'd snared Geralt, forced him to act--fuck it all he had Geralt on his heels--he was going to die.
Those pennants--the gold nautilus--those were the key--
Jaskier would personally shred every one he could find.
no subject
Jaskier hit the ground hard, took it hip and elbow as he was sent sprawling, and for a moment it was all he could do to watch the Witcher before him. He snarled, his expression placid even through that awful sound, and his hands ripped the fabric and that pennant savagely. He advanced and Jaskier's boots scrambled against the hardwood as he hurried to stand--
Then, to Jaskier's shock, the Witcher faltered.
He gasped and staggered, fell to a knee then to all fours, and those gold eyes locked on him. For the barest moment, he knew that face.
This wasn't--this was no monster--
It--he was Geralt--
Jaskier's eyes widened and watered--there was a desperate sort of recognition in those gold eyes--and then, as soon as the expression dawned, he was pulled under again. Jaskier watched as Geralt's eyes blanked, as his face smoothed, and he began to understand.
That awful, horrible bitch--
The bard's dudden, rising fury was not something he could indulge in. He had a bare moment to put it all together before Geralt leapt for him, sprang up from the floor like a wolf diving at prey. Jaskier twisted frantically, spun through the gaping doorway and narrowly avoided the Witcher's hands. His hip radiated pain as he forced himself back into a dead run--it slowed him, in truth, but he was suddenly too distracted to really notice. Jaskier raced toward the ballroom and his eyes danced frantically across the walls of the dark hallway--Geralt had been freed when he tore that fucking hideous pennant--
Of course there was a spell--of course it was cruel--fuck, why hadn't he remembered this place sooner? She'd snared Geralt, forced him to act--fuck it all he had Geralt on his heels--he was going to die.
Those pennants--the gold nautilus--those were the key--
Jaskier would personally shred every one he could find.