He had, in fact, spent the vast majority of his monies on this whole ordeal, but there were ins and outs to the contest that he had not expounded on too greatly. Even if he loses, and wouldn't that be a dreadful failure, there is little chance he will not be offered some sort of patronage after putting on a show. He has a scant few crowns to his name, now, but the precariousness is part of the thrill of artistic life. He cannot begrudge it for simply existing.
"Fret not," he tells her and gestures to the room. "This, at least, is a perk of competing. They hedge their bets that I am to be the victor and, in return, it is known just where I happen to be staying for the duration."
The pricey nature of the room speaks to how well the owners assume he will do. (The woman who owned the kitchen would not stop singing his own songs at him when she spied him walking through.)
He strolls across the room once they've arrived and throws open the curtains nearest the wardrobe. His outfits within are visible and, oh, how they sparkle and gleam. He shall sell all but one of them once this is over, but they will be quite the sight whilst he stands in front of the conservatory. He bends and rifles through the case that holds his lute and, in short order, has both a fine quill pen and a handkerchief in hand. Both are unmarked and otherwise could have just as easily been Jaskier's, but they were not.
The handkerchief he had kept because of sentiment. The pen? It was a very nice pen.
"And how easy it is to believe that your first magics were such staggering, special things--to literally take yourself away, to achieve the purest freedom with your first breath of sorcery--ah it is so terribly poetic. Birds would envy you if they were clever enough to envy anything."
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"Fret not," he tells her and gestures to the room. "This, at least, is a perk of competing. They hedge their bets that I am to be the victor and, in return, it is known just where I happen to be staying for the duration."
The pricey nature of the room speaks to how well the owners assume he will do. (The woman who owned the kitchen would not stop singing his own songs at him when she spied him walking through.)
He strolls across the room once they've arrived and throws open the curtains nearest the wardrobe. His outfits within are visible and, oh, how they sparkle and gleam. He shall sell all but one of them once this is over, but they will be quite the sight whilst he stands in front of the conservatory. He bends and rifles through the case that holds his lute and, in short order, has both a fine quill pen and a handkerchief in hand. Both are unmarked and otherwise could have just as easily been Jaskier's, but they were not.
The handkerchief he had kept because of sentiment. The pen? It was a very nice pen.
"And how easy it is to believe that your first magics were such staggering, special things--to literally take yourself away, to achieve the purest freedom with your first breath of sorcery--ah it is so terribly poetic. Birds would envy you if they were clever enough to envy anything."