whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

"Make no mistake that he wanted to fuck me. Badly. It was anticipating a long, drawn out courtship of some manner. He didn't deserve to die. Though I suppose the indignity of having his virtue be-smudged after I got what I wanted would have been dreadful for his small mind. I was pretty sure he had a small cock too." As if to rinse away her callousness, Yennefer takes a sip of sympathy.

Jaskier is the only person to make her smile so much her face ached. Patiently waiting out his outburst and drink--that is a drink--Yennefer reached out to pat his palm. "Now, now. He didn't--tell me directly. He was thinking about that time. I happened to see it." The way Yennefer delicately shrugged makes mind reading seem so simple.

Politics! Oh here they go. This was not one she could deny. That's what happens when you're a hero at a battle or something. Yennefer keeps drinking and lets her lip curl some. "Dull business with even duller people." She reaches for the bottle. Another cast of frost upon it.

"More for you before we carry on, my lord?"

At that correction, Jaskier actually manages an honest blush. Rare, yes, but it manages to take him. He goes red to the tips of his ears in a split-second. It was one thing to be told about how absolutely pathetic that first attempt at picking up Geralt had been--that was reasonable--but that she had witnessed it firsthand through the lens of Geralt's eyes?

"Well, that is embarrassing," Jaskier admitted and downed the remainder of his cup before holding it out and tacitly requesting more. "I have gotten better at flirting, I'll have you know--and I wasn't that terrible back then. Oh, why am I defending myself at eight-teen?"

He nods his head in thanks as she pours him more and then lets out a huff of breath. He'd gotten her to drink--lucky guess, that--and he was starting to feel the liquor in his system as they carried on. Another refill or two and they'd finish the bottle.

"Now, I would object to telepathy being used to dredge up information but, frankly, it seems fair enough. Next time we'll just pick a game that favors me a bit more."

"Jaskier," her tone has altered so much to one that you would give a child or a small animal. The change happened without any transition. Yennefer would be more guarded if she were less into the bottle than she is in this moment. "I promise I don't do much more than prod the surface. And in your case your words and thoughts are one and the same. All I have to do is wait a moment. You express yourself in the next breath."

No point in reading his mouth when he is so ready to speak. Geralt on the other hand, if it was not a thoughtful hum or a short retort he would almost always keep words to himself. Yennefer in her way felt that there was no other way than to just read his thoughts. He knew. He let her. Or at least she believe that he let her. Reading thoughts is not perfect work. People can purposely have a cloud of ideas or purposefully distract. Somehow or another the witcher hid himself from her.

Damn him. She must banish these thoughts.

More of the delicious drink in each glass. She almost over poured her own tin cup. It's an excuse to take a sip before letting it be. "My turn again is it? Let me think." A real moment for thought because she has to consider actual details she has gleaned. "I have never lived in Oxenfurt." Yennefer fingers lace together and propped up her chin. Her long lashes swept open and shut.

"Really, you haven't?" Jaskier asks and shoots her an honestly confused look before taking a drink. "Pity, you should try it. It's a very lively place."

He would turn it back on her, but unfortunately Jaskier has lived in quite a few major cities and Aedirn is not so out of the way that he hadn't been through. He frowns and taps his cup idly.

"Well, I've never..." Done magic? That was a bit easy. Also he couldn't confirm he hadn't--his music, after all, was quite magical. (He would die rather than admit it weren't, so that's straight out.) "Summered in a palace?"

He hazards, tentatively. It wasn't hard to imagine, Yennefer living in a summer court somewhere. He'd never been retained long enough to linger in one for the season, but he knew it was done.

"I've passed through. Beautiful place. A poet's wake was happening while I was there. Perhaps the biggest party I've seen in some time. What was the fellow's name? Perring? Herring?" Her wrist circulated as she tried to guide her mind to remember. It was nine or so years ago, give or take. "Szymon Sperring! Most popular work was hmmmm A Meditation on Spring, right? Some staunchly stand by that he was only talking of flowers and nectar the whole time." The snicker that rolls from her lips is almost a purr. Yes, she's getting drunk too.

Both hands frame her cup and she awaits her question. "God, yes. Though I won't ever again. Not for a purse of gold as big as my head." She takes a long drink. Bless the frostiness, bless the cherry, bless the delicate burn. "I was mislead very early into my tenure. Stay, they said. Stay because there is such intrigue and we cannot afford without you. Which meant I was finding ways for the king to hide his very important rendezvous."

Oh! He remembered that, though he had a bit of trouble recalling Sperring's poetry as Yennefer reminisced. He did know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was not at all about flowers and nectar. No one in Oxenfurt wrote about plants.

Jaskier listens as she spins her story about summering in some court somewhere and finds, before it is through, that somewhere between the tale of the poet and the trysts, he'd leaned forward and propped his elbow on the table, then his head in his hand. He hums at the open derision in her tone and marvels, just briefly, that they had wasted so much time being tentative enemies.

Yennefer, as it was rapidly turning out, was something of a treat.

"Oh, you know it will be dreadful when they advertise the intrigue," Jaskier commiserates and pulls a face. In his free hand he swirls the liquor before taking an unprompted sip.

"Or rather, you know it will be boring when they're willing to cop to it. I can't imagine anything worse--boring court intrigue is practically sacrilege--and a King having trysts?" He snorts.

"Unless it was with his horse, or another monarch, who fucking cares? I mean, Foltest, yeah? Rumor says his niece is actually his daughter, as well, and her strange appearance is a lingering curse rather than some childhood ailment. That's proper intrigue."

It is lucky he is speaking quietly given that he is, at current, in Temeria at the behest of said king.

Judging by the crowd that had attended the wake of the poet, many, many ladies of various ages and patrons of the arts together, his work touched many. With enough of their drink, perhaps Yennefer will amuse Jaskier with whatever lines she can recall from A Meditation on Spring. Having more of a head for chaos, potion work and more scientific measures, she doesn't have the poetic soul. His thoughts on another's work would be wonderful to know.

Her own expression mirrored Jaskier across the table, she pushes her hair over her shoulder as it moves. "I had believed I could make an impact in court at the time. You are so very right. They were appealing to my curiosity as well as my desire to stretch my wings." A full lunged sigh and she goes for a drink of her own just because. This information spills from her without any consideration or thought. The bard speaks all the time, and she listens. And it isn't the drink that is lowering her guard.

This tidbit of King Foltest makes her eyes widen. Temeria is Triss Merigold's kingdom. A witcher saving a princess. Oh. Oh wait. Yennefer takes another long drink holding up her finger to him as if to hold the thought in place with it until she finished. That was a significantly deeper pull on her cup that before. Ah, that time it did burn more and she has a small cough for it. "Ahemmm. I know it was a curse. Triss told me. Have you met her? Curly chestnut hair, beautiful skin. Loves blue the way I love black."

"I have not," Jaskier announces, both conversationally and with that same curious interest that Yennefer had begun to hint at when he mentioned Maciej. But, no, he wasn't here to listen to summary descriptions of other sorceresses--Yennefer had decided to just casually confirm one of the most salacious scandals he'd ever heard.

He leans in, his whole attention on her and the rest of him on the edge of his chair.

"And she..." Wait, was she implying that Triss had cursed her? That seemed a bit candid. Jaskier's face pinched with confusion a moment before smoothing back to boldfaced curiosity. "...told you?" He hazards.

Those cornflower blue eyes and long lashes pull off innocence a way that Yennefer never could. Is that the charm and appeal? Well, aside from musical talents. Jaskier is a scholarly stock with more delicate features. Yes, yes she thinks that he would be an amusement to Triss as well.

"Of course she told me." That's what amicable enchantresses do. Share information. Though she has gone out of her way to express her disdain for her brethren as a whole, hasn't she? Nevermind all that.

Yennefer wets her lips and runs her finger over the rim of the tin cup. "She told me that King Foltest was dealing with a creature that fed at the full moon. Triss serves his realm as mage. The small folk wanted the beast vanquished. Triss believed that the curse could be lifted and that is where our precious, white-haired fool came in." As if they need to say who. Must he pop up everywhere?

Jaskier, who was entirely invested in Yennefer's story as well as the coy, sultry way she'd chosen to tell it (good form, that, he could appreciate it from the unique standpoint of a professional storyteller...and also she was pretty and he was drunk), was rapt as she detailed what Triss, the lovely blue sorceress, had told her. A creature that fed at the full moon, that was a princess who was changed back and spared a cursed life as a monster--Gods' it was almost too good to be true, he should have been taking notes--

And then, of course, Geralt had been involved.

Jaskier groaned and let his head slip out of his hand, an unhappy but overblow moe on his face. He finished his drink and reached to pour himself another. His expression was apologetic as he looked back at Yennefer.

"Apologies--of course he was. He always is," Jaskier lamented. "He's just so fucking noble and heroic."

He tops off Yennefer without being asked and then settles back in, adopting his previous posture, but now he has a sad sort of pout on his face as well. The moonstruck, longing look he's hiding under that pout is creeping through, around the edges of alcohol.

"Alright, tell me. What dashing heroics and daring do did our idiot Witcher perform?"

Edited (SULTRY. NOT SLUTY. DAMN YOU FINGERS.) 2020-03-17 05:43 (UTC)

That moan and response was a given. "I know!" she all but moaned. "I know, I know! The minute you mentioned it I just simply had to tell you so that you'd understand." That was such a gift. These little common threads that pop up in her day to day. At last another person can wring their hands and clench their teeth with her! Why was it that they despised one another so? What better way to try and change the flavor than to drink more of her cup. Jaskiers timing was brilliant. More space for him to fill.

"Triss tells me that the princess was cursed to be a striga. Some other royal fuckery." This statement is delivered with a violet eyeroll. "And with it being a creature transformed by the moon, it can either be transformed or destroyed by the light of day. Meaning that grunt spent hours fighting the striga until dawn." Both of Yennefer's delicate hands gestured to the air with a lack of words for a moment. Heroic, poetic, stupid. "The princess was transformed from her beastly state after. Though she had been under the spell for years now. And do you know what her highness did to the witcher? Tried to still rip his throat out."

One simply cannot make this swill up. At least not Yennefer of all people. She took up her cup once more to take a full cheeked gulp, averting her eyes away from Jaskier's sad pout a moment. He looked the way she felt upon hearing this tale the first time. Awed, saddened and all together disappointed that such a colossal fool could do such wonderful things.

Jaskier was, all at once, apoplectic and morose--it was a very strange and exhausting combination to view on the face of any person. Geralt, the fucking fool, had fought for hours against a huge and terrible beast made by a curse and then, thought sheer will, had apparently saved the creature from years of hideous thrall. He'd rescued the forever abandoned princess.

"Of course she did, of fuuuucking course she did," Jaskier sang but quietly and swirled his brandy in the cup. The first bottle was nearly done. "And I'm sure he left without accepting any coin or accolade, didn't he?"

Does he sound bitter? It's because he is.

Jaskier, in a very unwise move, grimaces and throws back the contents of his cup. He sputters once he's managed to swallow the lot of it and blinks quickly and for a while as the burn crawls down his throat. Once he sets the cup on the table (drops the cup, he drops it), Jaskier holds up a hand to summon the barmaid again.

When she arrives he orders some food--something meaty or made of bread, something for snacking. He calls the woman darling on reflex and she blushes prettily before jogging off. When he turns back to Yennefer his resignation is back in place. There's a flicker of self-loathing then, but it's dashed as he lifts the rim of his cup to his lips.

"He was...alright, wasn't he?"

Telling any other person on the Continent would have transformed into a long series of compliments to what seems like the only goddamn witcher on this wretched earth. Are there even others anymore? What do they even do? Why can't Yennefer or Jaskier come across them to be enthralled or appalled by them? No answers. Just questions. Though at least they both can sit and soak in the salt bath. Tiny injuries smarting.

"Principle and virtue do not feed a man on the road, let alone a witcher." Though you'd think that it would. So very high and mighty, isn't he? Yennefer turned up her nose at her own thinking and not wanting Jaskier to topple off into oblivion on his own drinks more. Oh drat. Too much conversation is making the cups warm. She would do her trick again. The night was not finished.

The barmaid, Jaskier's darling, hardly spares Yennefer a glance. Fine, be that way, the sorceress was going to take her pick of whatever was on a plate. Yennefer decided this.

Oh, self-loathing. That was all too familiar. She reached across the table to rub at the top of his hand in comfort as much as pity. "He took a chest of coin and was under Triss Merigold's dutiful care. No true harm done. Another terrific scar, I suppose." No, she won't think about it. The cup had not yet been charmed to coolness, it didn't matter. Yennefer needed it in the moment.

Jaskier plucked up a piece of meat, a roasted potato, and eschewed his fork entirely as he sadly ate them. Yennefer's hand on his was oddly comforting and he let out a sigh as he accepted it--nay, reveled in it? It is reveling if it's self pity? Probably. His drink was warm but he had already indulged enough that it wasn't unpleasant.

"Well, at least there's that," Jaskier acknowledges and assumes that Triss Merigold (Gods' she sounded like a positively round-faced, warm, cuddly woman, didn't she? He's not sure how to feel about that.) provided him excellent care. He takes a sip of his warm liquor and sighs.

"Well, I could turn it into a song, I suppose. About a fictional kingdom, of course. Maybe...the princess saves the creature instead of her being it." It's rough, this sort of work-shopping, and he is not overly fond of fully fictional ballads. Still, the idea of a beautiful princess and a beastly striga is...there's something to that.

"Alright, enough about Geralt, whose turn was it?"

His skin was warm and her's cold, be it from circulation or merely that was how it was to be. The contact and contrast was soothing. Yennefer quietly let herself feel pride that she too can be a kind of comfort without sex or trying to get something out of him. Though this is not a notion that comes to people who are used to being close to another person. She pulled her hand away and reached for a sliced, cooked carrot.

"To Triss and the fanged princess." Her toast only made sense to the two of them. Yennefer gulped right along with Jaskier. Her cup clunking and spilling a portion on her hand. Oops. Far less rigid than before, she indulged to lick what splashed upon her thumb.

Her eyebrows lifted and a short laugh bubbled. "Saving a beast? What a warrior princess? Or is it from true love's kiss?" Alright, alright. The subject must be changed or else not even Jaskier could be able to stand Yennefer surrendering to brine.

"I think it was my turn. Let me see. I have never received a gift from Elves." Like the lute, the neglected third wheel to their drinking session.

Jaskier was easily distracted at the best of time--now, well into his cups, stewed in a strange mix of despondency and exciting new appreciation, and caught between a conversation about a man he loved and hated, a magical tale he could spin into golden coin, and the game he was absolutely not losing--

She could've pointed over his shoulder and he'd have whipped around before she finished the gesture.

Licking her hand had his absolute and full attention and his gaze lingered on her thumb, even as his face soured a bit at her laugh. Indignation overcame--well, it overcame--and he bristled a bit as he looked at her face again.

"And why not both? Hm?" A warrior princess who saves a beast with a kiss--that was terribly romantic. Oh, better yet, a Witcher princess--no--he had to stop. Princess Witcher? STOP.

Jaskier stamped down that whole line of thought and punctuated it with an idle sip of the alcohol in hand. Or he would have, had he not tilted the cup to find it empty. That had gone...rather quickly, hadn't it? By the time he set his empty cup down, she had finished her question, and his indignation was back.

He pointed a finger at her, wagged it like a school-marm scolding unruly children.

"No-no-no-no--" he balked, tone aghast, and leaned further across the table. The food in front of him smelled divine--he didn't resist the urge to pluck up another piece of meat and toss it into his mouth. Unfortunately this meant that he had to chew before he could finish objecting.

"Am I--" he said as he swallowed, "meant to believe that those--those--" He was out of words and cast about, coming back with something more florid than he ought to have used but still up to the task: "Amethyst orbs of yours, glittering all pretty and impossible in that whole...." He gestured with that hand, openly, to the whole of her head. "Face--"

"Am I meant to believe those weren't gifts from the elves?" He asked and leaned back, folded his arms across his chest and cocked both brows up as he stared at her. Checkmate, Yennefer. "I call absolute hogwash, madam--we both drink on that one or naught at all."

Why bother pretending she was not scrounging? She was. Oh, whatever they've done with it salted and seasoned well (no doubt to prove how darling the barmaid can be for a man who asks) it is delectable. Yennefer had enough wits about her to chew with her mouth shut though she does not let that stop her from expressing her opinion.

"Both would not make it a beautiful story. Or is that to be a harrowing ballad, something to lug out on somber occasions? This is your area of expertise, so forgive my pedestrian assumptions." If Jaskier can make a tremendous, emotional upheaval and craft it with a tune and words to transform it to be a whole new bloom, than perhaps he too is his own mage. Break the bones and twist the spine and create a new story without the pain of the first. True transformation was pain.

The amethyst orbs blink at the bard. The scales of emotion are luckily tilted into amusement. "A bit of my face, maybe. My eyes?" So obvious and yet no one had ever termed it as such. Never. Yennefer tosses her hair back and laughs at herself, at genetics and how anyone would believe she looks natural by any capacity. The compliment could tear her to pieces. "We both will drink! Though I must make it cold again or I'll perish." Inebriation brought out the dramatic in her too.

Oh, Yennefer, is that a challenge? Do you think Jaskier, greatest bard in all the land, cannot make a story about a warrior princess who saves a beast into one of the most popular compositions of all time? He is absolutely beyond words--and now he is determined. It shall be his greatest song. Greater than anything he wrote about Geralt.

"Excellent," he congratulated as she cooled the fresh bottle and her own cup as well. Jaskier broke the seal on the second bottle and refreshed them both before lifting his cup and taking the requisite drink.

His lute was lovely, though, and quite an excellent gift.

But, if she was going to play the obvious--that did give him an idea for his next challenge. He'd have to suffer for it, but it was the best chance he had to make her drink again.

"Alright, here's one," Jaskier tells her and breaks to pick at the food some more. He has no issue with her taking from the plate, indeed he hasn't bothered to move it from the center of the table.

"I've never held a title in any land," Jaskier challenges and it is a lie but, come on--his satisfaction is just this side of smug as he smiles at her.

There are so few songs, more than that popular songs about individuals that buck the long held traditions of beauty. Jaskier already has "Toss a Coin" can he get another with equal or greater popularity? Yennefer does love playful and not so playful antagonism. She batted her lashes at him and cups are brimming again.

His next question had her mid chew. Since he insisted on not sharing, Yennefer had no fork. He's got her with her fingers in her mouth again. Thankfully she had conjured a napkin at the very least to clean her pointer and thumb. She didn't drop it at the prompt but wound it tightly.

"Court mage. Trusted advisor. Deputy mayor." For each, she took a sip. No slurping, no, no. Yennefer is a lady, is she not? The cool kiss of cherry contrasts with the building warmth in her cheeks.

"Hah! I knew it, well, sort of," Jaskier crowed and the lifted his cup to take a long drink. She had sipped for each title but, in fairness, his was more along the lines of what he had been fishing to learn.

"I mean, I would have guessed Duchess or at least an 'in waiting'," he admitted. He gestured with his cup hand in an idle way. "You carry yourself with that vein of confidence."

He let's out a short sigh and gestures back at himself.

"I do not, but I am technically a Viscount of Redania, so, cheers again."

He really just wanted another sip, frankly. He could feel the easy heat settling against the surface of his skin, the fog of alcohol dulling his movements. This was fun and extremely comfortable. He wished they had pillows--he could really go for reclining on a pillow.

"Duchess? Ahhh," Yennefer sighs and cups her cheek. "No, I've not yet been awarded for my efforts and duties to the realm so handsomely." There goes the songbird, a sweet, sweet tune. She laughd softly again though nothing funny was spoken, that is until she finds herself seated with not just a bard but--

"Viscount of Redania! Jaskier!" She reached across the table for his hand, his sleeve, for whatever so long as she's not reaching into the dish. "You scoundrel!" Viscount! "How long have you held title! Tell me!" Whatever Yennefer managed to hold she gives a tug on like a petulant child. Nibbles and long gulps of their liquor have softened her considerably. "His lordship must tell me!"

The face he makes as she announces him, as her expression goes from fond to excited? Amused? Oh, she was going to mock him for this, he could feel it...and yet he didn't think he would mind overmuch. She grabs his cuff, then his forearm, reaching round their dinner in her delight.

Oh, then she calls him Lordship and he looks like he has swallowed something sour whilst listening to Valdo Marx butcher some poor shanty.

"Lordship?" he repeats, strained and dismissive, grimacing playfully. He takes a drink again and sets his cup aside. He does nothing at all to dislodge her hold of him, nor to prevent her from arranging his arm as she likes.

"Well, since I was born," Jaskier admits. It is not as grand a story as being bequeathed the title, sadly. "My father is the Duke de Lettenhove, and therefore, all of his relatives are, to varying degrees, impressively titled. His only son most of all."

"Lordship," she parrots amused. Now the peacocking of times before makes so very much sense. Jaskier has the plumage of title and rank by birth. Her eyes have widened and lips parted both taking it in. She would not openly gape like a fish to such a degree.

The song bird must have flown from the gilded cage to be of his own design surely! Yennefer's fingers clutch tighter because she won't spill herself across the table to embrace him. "Jaskier, I have only just begun to know you!"

Sleeping under the stars on a bedroll or gallivanting over hill and dale instead of steady lodging at an inn. Or at least that is the picture painted before her inebriated mind. "Please tell me more. You're herald now by your own merit so much so I wasn't even aware you're nobility."

Yennefer looks positively taken by this revelation, eyes wide and smile holding her mouth just agape. Jaskier has not taken leave of all his senses (despite the alcohol), but even he is just a mortal man. In that moment he is struck by how beautiful she is; her delight, her charm, the feeling of her attention and how it shifts with each clever thought, each has him entranced. She is lovely, of course, but that's a given. (It doesn't hurt, but he's quite used to that thought.)

The sky is blue, Witchers are grouchy cunts, and Sorceresses are beautiful.

This interaction, though, the way she clutches his arm in a mock hug, all eager joy, this is so new and so unlike what he has seen before. It's personal and touching and has Jaskier's whole tender heart snared in an instant. Like a rabbit in a trap he finds himself without his feet beneath him, stomach flipped, caught up and stuck.

He wonders, briefly, if this is what Geralt saw in her...but he somehow doubts Geralt ever saw her this way. Geralt is not the sort of fellow to inspire this reaction in people. (Which, oh dear, means that he is special and this whole...moment is his and his alone.)

He manages to just stare, embarrassed, and thankfully the sensitivity of the topic covers the sudden flush that takes his face.

Oh, but then she is complimenting him--and it hits much harder now. It takes some real effort to chuckle and demure--fortunately he has alcohol to help with that. He jauntily lifts his cup and takes a quick drink.

"Well, it helps that my name is not actually Jaskier," he admits with a slight shrug. Herald by his own merit--what a grand compliment. She hadn't ever bothered to look into him--he was just the bard. Ah, that was all he ever wanted in life--

"It's Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove," he announces very quietly with some false pomp before returning to his standard volume. He learned long ago that mentioning his family name or their duchy of origin would get him attention and favors he did not care at all for. Being hired as a bard because someone sought his father's Political Favor was...well it stung in more ways than one.

"Which is far too much for a stage name. But...beyond that, what do you want to know?"

Mercy of mercies, he has suddenly run out of words and the topic has just shifted to himself. How staggering--he will blame the alcohol, later.

Edited (how dare that apostrophe stick in there) 2020-03-18 02:07 (UTC)

The cat-like eyes of Geralt saw many different shades to Yennefer. A few candid, yes. And perhaps being a twisted, flawed creature himself that was the points that got his attentions. Lonely? Yes. Cruel? Sometimes. Terribly misunderstood? Perhaps that was a logic Yennefer applied to herself and no other. For a time it seemed like Geralt was able to truly see her as she was. She loved him for that. For that safe, cherished feeling his presence gave her... why would she call it anything other than love? Was it all really the wish?

The humor existed. Geralt and his brutish ways and means made her laugh. Though entirely falling upon his shoulders to be self-depreciating. That came naturally. And Yen? Sarcasm, clever words to volley. Did he make her feel giddy with laughter as she does now? No.

The mystifying nature of a Witcher did intrigue her, it did not take her by utter surprise the way Jaskier has. All this time in plain sight, and perhaps because he considered his status to be such a trifle and so obvious it was not worth mentioning. That makes this information more precious, more charming and amusing.

Yes, the alcohol was helping. There was that. Her face feels hot and the lanterns hanging from the rafters have halos of light.

This revelation made Yennefer want to reexamine his behavior step by step from the moment Geralt plopped him into a parlor of writhing bodies. The mayor should have counted himself blessed to host a noble countryman. She gave one final fond clutch before threading her fingers together to prop up her chin, her eyes still adjusting as though to see him for the very first time.

"My dear Viscount de Lettenhove," that's delivered without a stumble though she bites her lip before laughing. "Julian Alfred." Jaskier all this time was a Julian. "How was it that you decided to be Jaskier? Or--perhaps the question is that what became of de Lettenhove because Jaskier had been your truest self the whole time?" Are they too far gone into drink for this? Is this too personal? Yennefer's attention was rapt upon him. Naturally the tavern is none too interesting in his lowly way as it was.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject