Jaskier - Julian Alfred Pancratz (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whatupbuttercup) wrote2020-04-11 12:23 pm
whatupbuttercup) wrote2020-04-11 12:23 pm
PSL Hypnosis with Monsterbytrade
The court at Cidaris was absolutely the most droll, boring court that Jaskier had ever been witness to--which was an absolute pity because the kingdom itself was rather delightful. Unfortunately, while the cities and towns of Cidaris were lovely and colorful, the court was as dull as dishwater and half as appealing. Normally, he would have declined an invitation to play at a celebration in the Cidarin court, but they had been relatively nearby and they still hadn't managed to replace Geralt's silver blade.
Playing a young Cidarin prince's birthday party was, on the whole, about the least interesting job Jaskier could imagine taking...but it paid well and was easy. So, after talking up the event, he'd asked Geralt to accompany him and the two of them made their way to coast.
The party had gone well enough, even if the night had seemed to drag on.
The boy had only turned ten, so the entertainment had been a bit on the childish side--Jaskier included. He had been specifically requested and had been hired over a whole host of Cidarin bards. He hadn't anticipated anyone wanting his head at this particular event, (not apart from those other bards, at least,) but Geralt had accompanied him nonetheless. He nearly made it through the night unnoticed but, once Jaskier had a request for Toss a Coin, Geralt's anonymity was up. After that, the Witcher had suffered a barrage of questions from the gathered gaggle of young boys. They questioned him regarding every type of monster they could recall, for near on two hours before the pomp of the celebration had forced them to disperse.
Overall, it wasn't the worst way to spend a night. The seaside chateaux they held the party at was removed, private, fairly pleasant overall. They had been granted room and board, their horses taken to the estate stables--there was even a bath waiting for them afterward. It was a firmly middling job that paid well and didn't involve murder. Jaskier called it a win.
Unfortuantely, ever since they'd arrived, Jaskier had a niggling sensation that he was forgetting something. It stuck in the back of his head like a burr caught on fine leggings, but he never could quite grasp it. All night, something about the guests, about the location prodded at him. It wasn't until he was nearly asleep, just drifting on the border of waking and slumber, that it came back to him. He heard the distant sounds of wooden and shell windchimes, the whistle of the ocean breeze, and Jaskier realized they were in terrible danger.
"Oh fuck--" he hissed as he bolted upright, eyes staring at the fine manor room around him with open suspicion. No assassins suddenly leaped out of the woodwork, nothing turned to snakes. He pawed at his chest, wondered if the drink had been poisoned, but no--he felt fine. Maybe she'd forgotten him, eh? It had been years, long years, since he'd last been in this part of Cidaris--surely the lady who owned the manor was just throwing the party for status. She might not have even noticed he was here--yes, that seemed likely.
"Geralt--Geralt--" Jaskier hissed quietly and reached behind him to grab at the Witcher's shoulder and shake him awake. The bed was wider than their usual fare and he nearly toppled over in his haste. "We have to go--"
Playing a young Cidarin prince's birthday party was, on the whole, about the least interesting job Jaskier could imagine taking...but it paid well and was easy. So, after talking up the event, he'd asked Geralt to accompany him and the two of them made their way to coast.
The party had gone well enough, even if the night had seemed to drag on.
The boy had only turned ten, so the entertainment had been a bit on the childish side--Jaskier included. He had been specifically requested and had been hired over a whole host of Cidarin bards. He hadn't anticipated anyone wanting his head at this particular event, (not apart from those other bards, at least,) but Geralt had accompanied him nonetheless. He nearly made it through the night unnoticed but, once Jaskier had a request for Toss a Coin, Geralt's anonymity was up. After that, the Witcher had suffered a barrage of questions from the gathered gaggle of young boys. They questioned him regarding every type of monster they could recall, for near on two hours before the pomp of the celebration had forced them to disperse.
Overall, it wasn't the worst way to spend a night. The seaside chateaux they held the party at was removed, private, fairly pleasant overall. They had been granted room and board, their horses taken to the estate stables--there was even a bath waiting for them afterward. It was a firmly middling job that paid well and didn't involve murder. Jaskier called it a win.
Unfortuantely, ever since they'd arrived, Jaskier had a niggling sensation that he was forgetting something. It stuck in the back of his head like a burr caught on fine leggings, but he never could quite grasp it. All night, something about the guests, about the location prodded at him. It wasn't until he was nearly asleep, just drifting on the border of waking and slumber, that it came back to him. He heard the distant sounds of wooden and shell windchimes, the whistle of the ocean breeze, and Jaskier realized they were in terrible danger.
"Oh fuck--" he hissed as he bolted upright, eyes staring at the fine manor room around him with open suspicion. No assassins suddenly leaped out of the woodwork, nothing turned to snakes. He pawed at his chest, wondered if the drink had been poisoned, but no--he felt fine. Maybe she'd forgotten him, eh? It had been years, long years, since he'd last been in this part of Cidaris--surely the lady who owned the manor was just throwing the party for status. She might not have even noticed he was here--yes, that seemed likely.
"Geralt--Geralt--" Jaskier hissed quietly and reached behind him to grab at the Witcher's shoulder and shake him awake. The bed was wider than their usual fare and he nearly toppled over in his haste. "We have to go--"
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A few long, striking steps brought him to the window and Geralt yanked the entire leftside curtain off the hooks with a sharp motion. It fell quickly under the weight of its own lux fabric, the metal hangers that had held it hitting the floor with tiny, tinny noises; there was nothing behind except the nailed portions of the planking used to cover the window-- and the single, broken board at the bottom. The draft had been moving the curtain. Geralt kicked at the next board up, splintering it in half and then pried the two above it out by mean force, chucking them out toward the darkness beyond. Leaning into the wind, salt spray hitting his face, the witcher leaned out of the window enough to check the narrow ledge on either side of the window.
It was a long way down, after all, and bards couldn't fly.
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Light spilled into the room, watery and pale, and a quick, brisk ocean breeze chased after it. Jaskier watched dustmotes stir wildly in the air. Another board and another groaned and squealed as they were torn free from the wall. The sound of crashing waves was nearly deafening. It drowned out everything, save for the quiet flutter of that stupid pennant as it fluttered to the ground by his foot. The design on it was a sparkling gold nautilus.
He stared at the symbol as it glittered in the moonlight, and realized that Geralt must've been looking outside.
For him.
He had a window of escape, however narrow, and he had to take it.
He might have made it, but that stupid little parchment decoration floated up as he moved and managed to insert itself right underneath his goddamned boot. He dove out from under the desk and the very first step he took crunched with the sound of that paper underfoot. He darted for the gaping doorway, but that fucking paper stuck to his shoe, held there by whisky and bad luck (apparently). His foot skidded atop the smooth hardwood floor as he ran. He lost some traction, then, and Jaskier's nimble darting was reduced to a pitched, graceless scramble.
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Humiliate him, maim him, take his joys away. Humiliate him, maim him, destroy his loves...
Geralt lunged for Jaskier just as Jaskier fell and not even a witcher could have changed his momentum so completely, so quickly. Hands that had been aiming for his waist caught boot leather instead and Geralt barely managed to keep his lower torso free of the flailing limbs of the bard as his momentum carried him past his target. He hit the shelving of the nearby wall with almighty shudder of wood and stuffed animals, books, glassed curios, all toppled and fell to the floor around him. The racket was terrible and utterly ignored. He looked at his hands-- a torn patch of lilac trouser leg and the pennant with the nautilus upon it. Yellow eyes darted to Jaskier and Geralt growled a deep, feral sound as he shredded the fabrics in his hand.
He hadn't even taken a step forward when the shudder gripped him; Geralt's gasp was audible and he staggered, went down to a knee, crumpled, ripped fabric clutched in his hands against the floor. The pain of glass slicing into his knee, his knuckles, was completely lost against a wave of dizziness; it was as if, for just a moment, all the water inside that large, dark cave inside of him had been sucked away and he had to remember how to breathe air again. He looked up at Jaskier and just for a heartbeat small wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes. And then they smoothed away.
Geralt drew in a deep breath with the sound of the next breaker from the ocean down below. "Boo," he whispered in that gravel voice, his muscles tensing before he launched himself forward again.
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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.
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Geralt slammed into the doorframe as Jaskier skidded out from under his lunge. It slowed him down for long enough for Jaskier to get a head start but ultimately there was little chance for the bard to get away. Geralt was fast and he was sure and he could easily follow Jaskier's path based on scent alone, especially now that the man had fallen in the fresh whiskey. There was no reason to even slow down and consider. It took Geralt two long stretches of hallway and one corner to get the man in his sights, silks catching the moonlight as they slid through wide double-doors and into the ballroom.
The witcher hit the doors with a shoulder handful of moments later and they burst inward, hitting the inner walls and rebounding with enough force that he had to catch them; the slapped against his palms and stopped, shuddering. "Fingers or cock, Jaskier?" Geralt asked as he stepped into the room. He surely looked a sight. The ballroom was lined by fine, high arched windows and the moonlight slid though the curtains in flat, shimmery slats, cutting the room into slices. Geralt stood in one, hair a mess, face marred by three bloody lines across the left side of his forehead and cheek, chest pale and bare save its normal network of scars that shone white in the light. Even with his eyesight the sectioning of the light made it hard to see. "I could break one and spare the other."
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How many magic wards did it take to snare a Witcher?
Could that have possibly been her main goal? Jaskier didn't know much about magic but he knew quite a bit about Witchers and this seemed like a risky gambit. What if Geralt had refused to attend with him? What if he had been immune to the wards? What if--what if--
Jaskier slipped into the ballroom and darted to the side. He hadn't made it ten feet before that question--what if--had been thoroughly answered. He plowed into something large and heavy, stable enough that he nearly knocked himself over. The room was brighter than the hall but it still took him a long moment to realize what had stopped him.
A body.
He stared and his heart siezed--no, it was a person. They were standing upright, eyes open, face slack, breathing but only just. Next to them there was another and another--his eyes tracked the perimeter of the room, ahead of him. The whole party was here, stood frozen in the dark, lifeless and waiting.
Behind him, he heard Geralt's shoulder as it connected with the doors. He jumped and dove behind the man he had collided with. The crowd of insensate statue people gave him some cover and he stepped lightly and quickly as he moved away from the doors.
She had a fucking crowd? Let it never be said that Vanessa did things by halves.
Had she planned to maul him at the party? Have the partygoers attack him and then decided Geralt would be worse? That sounded like her brand of vindictive bitchery, and also was entirely correct. Then why weren't these people helping the Witcher? Why hadn't they reacted as he moved through them?
Geralt had destroyed one ward and come out of it, if only for a moment.
The doors rebounded off the walls with an almighty crash and none of the bodies around him so much as flinched. They were so far under that they were nearly comatose. Geralt had gasped and doubled over--
She could only barely keep him enthralled.
Geralt strode in, through the shadows and slats of moonlight and Jaskier felt terror creep into him. The paltry handful of pennants he'd snatched up weren't going to solve this. (He clutched them greedily in defense, but they weren't enough.) He needed--fuck, he had no idea--the curtains stirred in Geralt's wake, cast more light over the floor and let in the sound of waves. Something above sparkled and Jaskier glanced up.
That awful tacky chandelier had dangling gold shells.
He would bet all the gold in Cintra that damned chandelier was the cornerstone of her spell.
He had to find a way to smash it.
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"Nothing? Where's your sense of adventure, Jaskier!?" Geralt moved between those bodies as if he were water slipping through pylons, his body twisting with a sinuous grace to avoid elbows and shoulders entirely even as he kept his pace. The bard was here. There were two other sets of doors in the grand room but there were as large as the first, almost scraping the ceiling, and Geralt would have noticed if any of them had been opened. "Perhaps you should have named yourself after a bird instead of a flower." His voice echoed, bouncing against the high ceiling. "Since all your songs fall so quiet the moment something bigger comes along. Come out, Jaskier. Face your punishment."
Geralt lunged at a shadow near the harpsichord and found nothing, just a trick of the light. Growling he spun and resumed the hunt.
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Geralt would find him.
It took far too long for Jaskier's eyes to adjust, to pick up the shape of the heavy rope that trailed down from the chandelier above. He might've imagined it, truth be told, but it was his only available course of action. Geralt lunged at the harsichord and Jaskier moved, nimble feet treading as quietly as he could toward the banquet table and the hook that anchored that rope.
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"You love a crowd, Jaskier. Here they are." Geralt spread his arms. "Maybe I'll put you over my knee and paddle you to start." The sharpness of his husky voice was like the snap of teeth, promising so much more. His long steps ate up the ground between them too quickly even though he was only walking.
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He fell back into it, hands clutching those pennants too tightly to catch himself.
The pennants--Jaskier watched Geralt approach in the dark, watched those golden viper's eyes as they grew closer, and with haste born of fear he ripped the handful of papers he had. It would have, perhaps, been wiser to spread them out but Jaskier was gripped by panic.
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Good, then.
Geralt laid his hands on Jaskier's thighs, digging fingers into the meat of muscle. "This won't be quick," he promised, "but it will let you purge yourse--" the words strangled in his throat as the pennants ripped and the tide was pulled out from under his feet. Geralt fell completely to the side of the chair, curled into himself, hands that had released Jaskier clutching at his own head for a moment as a queer sound crawled through his lips. His head pounded and he was trying to breath, gasping, fighting his way up. Falling onto his back as his muscles relaxed he stared at the chandelier above himself, sparking golden-tinged rainbows in the moonlight.
"What--"
And then the waves were drowning him again but this time the cave didn't fill so completely. The word fell off his lips as Geralt slackened again, blinked upward. In the corner someone started sobbing but it wasn't Jaskier so he paid it little mind. Geralt turned his head, yellow eyes narrowing.
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He dropped the paper and pushed up, gripped the table to lift himself from the chair he'd tumbled in to. Geralt was on the ground, blinking, almost awake--he heard a gasp to the right, along the wall. He looked on reflex and spotted one of the maids as she stumbled forward and collapsed to her knees coughing.
What--why was she--
He looked back and Geralt was--the face that stared up at the chandelier was not Geralt, again.
"Oh, fuck me, then--" Jaskier breathed and grabbed the table as he hauled himself up out of the chair. He made it to his feet but before he could vault the banquet table, an iron grip caught him around his ankle.
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He crawled onto all four slowly, like a dog, and shook his head before drawing himself up.
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Geralt was back behind his own eyes.
It was only for a bare moment before the Witcher shoved him away, but it was there. Jaskier watched him sink back under, and fumbled for a weapon--the steak knife in hand was hardly going to work on a Witcher (and besides, he wasn't going to stab Geralt--he couldn't--not knowing whose fault this was).
It would work on that rope, though.
"Melitele's tits, Vanessa," Jaskier shouted at the ceiling as he retook his feet, as he darted back around that chair and tried to put the banquet table between Geralt and him. The Witcher was still rising when he reached the back wall, reached that damn rope--he took all his attention off Geralt, then, stupid as it was. The knife in hand was only sharp in the distant sense and he had to brace that rope as he sawed at it--it split fairly quickly, but it was also as thick as Jaskier's forearm.
"You didn't even like Erik!" Jaskier protested at the ceiling, again, hoping to goad the witch so she didn't realize what he was up to. The sea crashed outside in a constant drone and the chandelier jangled as one of the worsted cables of the rope split--two more, maybe just one--the weight of it had to be impressive. Surely it would fall on its own if the rope were weak enough--
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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.
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Geralt rolled, but he wasn't fast enough--Geralt was always fast enough--and the chandelier crashed in an explosion of metal bits, broken crystal, and shattered gilded shell. It threw half the banquet table off onto the floor, bounced against the heavy wooden table, and bits of it went flying as it did. Jaskier had to duck to keep from getting a gods' damned eyeful of glass as half of it burst outward and scattered shards across the ballroom.
The crash was still ringing in his ears as the bodies around him started to go slack and fall to the floor. He watched as each enthralled person collapsed in the dark--there wasn't enough light to make out if they lived, if they'd taken bits of thrown glass or shell to their faces--he knew he was a bad person, then, because he couldn't bring himself to care.
They were innocents, probably, but Geralt--
Jaskier stood as the pinging and rattling of the cast off crystal and shell finally came to a halt. His eyes frantically searched the dark for Geralt, for any shadow still standing, but there was nobody. Nobody apart from him. Geralt had dove off the table, right? Surely he'd be crouched on the ground, still. Jaskier scrambled, picked around the bodies that littered the floor--glass crunched underfoot and the surf was relentless outside.
"Geralt?" Jaskier hazarded as he came around the table--he half-expected to find the Witcher sitting, propped against the table with a flat glower for him. This was all his fault after all--but, no, no he wasn't sitting. He wasn't glowering. Jaskier knew the fallen shape was Geralt without having to stop and think about it. He cursed as he ducked under the creaking, broken skeleton of that chandelier and reached out to the Witcher.
"Fuck, Geralt, are you alright? Please don't be dead--please, please---"
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Consciousness was less than pleasant.
Geralt felt emptied, aching, hollowed out to the core-- and that was just his head. He groaned and put a hand against the floor in order to rise, only to find upward movement too large a hurdle at the current moment and rolling onto his back instead. Broken rib, possibly two. His knuckles, back and knees stung. Trying to focus his eyes upward at the ruins of the chandelier and the ceiling beyond was unpleasant and he still felt out of breath, felt raw in a way that he couldn't quite place... until Jaskier's face swam into view. Jaskier.
"Fuck," Geralt breathed out, closing his eyes. Jaskier's face and the sound of the ocean brought enough back, the sensation of drowning, of fighting a losing battle against the incoming tide. When he searched for how he got here, what had happened he found nothingness interrupted by the pale shock of Jaskier's face, the smell of whiskey and flowers, the downward swing of the chandelier and the sound of the ocean. What had happened? A mage, that much was obvious. But was it over? Had Jaskier taken care of it? Grunting, Geralt reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the bard's devastated doublet to help him pull himself up. Why didn't he have a shirt on? Why the fuck was he in the ballroom? "Jaskier, what happened?"
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"I am so glad you're not dead," Jaskier told him and left off as that maid in the corner started sobbing again.
"It's a bit of a tale but the long and short of it is: this villa is owned by a witch. She is not a fan of mine." At this point Jaskier twisted and shouted up at the ceiling, for some reason. "Good thing she's a predictable bitch with a penchant for shells!"
Vanessa probably couldn't hear him. She was probably not even in the manor, itself, but the shouting was still very cathartic. Jaskier let out a sigh and returned his attention to Geralt--his smile was chipper, even with the devestation around them.
His gaze drifted to the marks on Geralt's face and Jaskier debated, a moment, whether to fill the Witcher in on the nitty gritty (horrifying) details of the night. He started to elaborate--well, he wanted to start--but there wasn't really an easy way to detail the last few minutes.
Fuck, had it only been minutes?
"I can regale you with the tale another time. For now, let's get out of the pile of glass and twisted metal. Can you walk?"
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And in fact it only did take a little help to get Geralt to his feet. He blinked at the other people in the room, people he recognized from the party earlier tonight. He didn't understand why they were all in this room-- he could certainly guess at a few connections but it didn't seem worth the ache of his head, only that for now the worst was over and they seemed in much better shape than he felt. The... the chandelier had fallen on him? He shook his head and rubbed his eyes and then turned his hand over and pulled a shard of glass from between his knuckles, letting it fall to the ground. He was sure it was in his hair and other places as well.
As Jaskier's words sank in, Geralt stopped picking his way through the mess of the floor and looked at his friend. "Is she still here?" His body tensed with the possibility, ready for a fight.
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"Here?" Jaskier repeated and spun, eyes combing the dark for the witch. His alarm was telling but she was nowhere to be found. "No--no I don't think she had been here all night."
He certainly would have remembered seeing Vanessa at the party. She was not the sort of woman given to subtlety and the drama with which she liked to enter rooms was on par with Jaskier.
"Honestly, if she had been here, I would have bet she'd be in this room, waiting to watch me get torn to ribbons by the crowd, or flung off the balcony into the surf."
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It was quite clear to Geralt that Jaskier had been through something tonight and likewise it was quite clear that he himself had been involved in it-- but until the bard decided to fill him in on the details he wasn't going to bother to speculate why he had glass sticking out of him like he was some demented porcupine and broken ribs from a chandelier that just missed crushing his skull. Frankly there were more pressing matters, even if the witch wasn't here. When they reached a set of doors, Geralt looked back at the mess of the banquet table. He knew where he was-- which was a start for the night-- and the people around were clearly shaking off the same trance as he, but vengeful women were generally if not prepared then at least happy to be redundant in their efforts... at least, it seemed, where Jaskier was involved. His medallion was shivering against his chest but it seemed a tremor compared to what he'd ignored yesterday in the daylight, the more fool him. "No more cities," he growled under his breath as he pulled the door open. The crash of the sea outside was a constant sort of itch against his nerves and all Geralt wanted to do was get the fuck out of Cidaris and perhaps somewhere landlocked.