faderift | [ open ]

WHO: Jaskier + anyone, everyone
WHAT: exploring the Gallows, maybe getting into trouble with the locals, writin' songs and flirting with anything that looks human-ish. also probably trying to find a place to get some good wine.
WHEN: Now-ish
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Jaskier, the bisexual singing disaster comes with his own warnings for language. will update as necessary.

Fall, in Jaskier's opinion, is generally his favorite season. Not rainy like it can be in spring, nor is it cold and frigid like it tends to be in winter. In fact, he finds fall suits him well given his love of long-sleeved doublets with frilly, cotton undershirts. They're just enough to cut out the chill while still cool enough that they don't stick to his back or chest like they might during the summer. Furthermore, fall tends to be the time of Saovine, a time of late-harvest merriment that always proves to be a good time to try out new ballads and jigs.

That, at least, holds true for the Continent. Back home, Jaskier usually would be making his gradual way back to Oxenfurt, having parted ways with Geralt for the season, but since he is both parted from his close friend and no longer on the Continent he knows, Jaskier feels a bit adrift. That morning, he rises with the sun, dons his clothes ( which are starting to look worse for wear and in need of a few repairs ), and figures now would be a good day to do a little exploring.

The Gallows, as cloistered as it is, seems worth checking out, since he can't go much else for the time being. What he really wants is some good ale, or even better, a Toussaint wine. He also wants some company. This is the first time in a long time in which Jaskier has been well and truly on his own. Fortunately, as he emerges into the main area of the Gallows, it's clear that the place is well protected, which allows him a sigh of relief.

That is, until a giant griffin swoops overhead with a loud cry. Immediately, Jaskier ducks, almost falling on his face, as he tries to keep out of the creature's path.

"Sweet Melitele, someone bring that thing down!" he shouts, because where he's from, griffins are monsters slain by witchers. Nobody would think to ride one.

LATER:

It's getting towards noon now and Jaskier can feel his stomach growl with every step he takes around the Gallows. He's not really sure when the last time he ate, but he figures with a place like this, they have to have somewhere he can grab some food. Something beyond moldy or stale bread, he hopes. Or rations. One of the benefits of not traveling with Geralt anymore is the fact he doesn't have to live off whatever Geralt rustles up from the area in which they might be camping. So Jaskier expects something warm and filling. He heads towards where he expects to find the mess hall or whatever it is and sidles up to the nearest cook with an expectant expression.

"Any chance you've got some ale to go with that?" he asks, hoping that it's better than some of the other ales he's had on the road as of late.

EVENING:

The sun is slowly beginning to set behind the walls of the fortress and Jaskier, after picking at his anchor for a bit, decides he better find something to take his mind off the shard in his hand. It no longer hurts, fortunately, but it's still something of a nuisance. Now that he's been told what it does, he doesn't know what to do with himself. "Close rifts," he murmurs to himself. "This is so beyond my pay grade."

Eventually, he settles himself in the main area, hoping to draw some attention to his music and not his hand, and thus distract himself a little. He starts with a gentle strumming of his elven-made lute, and then begins to sing.

Warm glow with a golden shine
Come to rest under the virile vine
Dark flow from the oldest shrines
Blight and blood under the wealth and wine
With black blood in my veins
My silver sings again

He'll continue to play quietly, mostly for himself, until someone decides to come along and sit with him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Are you telling me that governments don't orchestrate people's deaths where you come from?"

Jaskier pauses, turning to face her completely as a more stern expression forms on his features. Again, his hands settle on his hips as his brows furrow.

"It's never so cut and dry as that. Certainly, the Cintran crown put down Elven rebellions or peasant revolts, much like any kingdom would. But those were always pitched battles. Not... knives in the dark."

He pauses again as he purses his lips, then raises a hand to point upward, an idea striking him. "That's a good line. I'll have to remember it."

Athessa squints slightly as she thinks about the line. Thinks, blades would be better than knives.

"It's never so cut and dry as only pitched battles, either. I'd be willing to bet coin that your world has had its fair share of assassinations."

She steps onto the ferry first, finding a comfortable spot to sit and lean against the gunwale quite casually. Just as casually, she gestures with a languid wave to his instrument to ask, "So do you just play, or are you a singer as well?"

He's about to argue that assassinations, if they happen, are very rare when she asks about his lute. He follows her onto the ferry and settles down beside her, but not before turning enough to swing his lute to his front. He strums a few chords, then grins.

"I do sing, quite well, I assure you. Would you like to hear something as we wait for the ferry to reach the other shore?"

Perhaps it's not that they're rare, but that they're well-executed.

"Sure," she says with a smirk. It's not a smug smirk, or snide, but the resting face of a sardonic stoner.

"Regale me, Serrah Jaskier, The Witcher's Bard."

Eyebrows raising at the suggestion, he pauses to pull his lute case off his shoulders, opens it to reveal the very intricate elven lute, and then lifts it to give it a few test strums. He then tunes it a little before setting a beat with a tap of his booted toes.

The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn
The call of a stone heart is broken and alone
Born of Kaer Morhen
Born of No Love
The song of the White Wolf is cold as driven snow...

Athessa listens as he sings, genuinely impressed. Should she have predicted that he'd actually be good based on his keening?

Maybe. But nevertheless, she looks at him with keener interest. Keen enough, one might think, to belie some underlying scheme. (There is no scheme but she can't help but look that way sometimes.)

"Well," she says, "That was fucking beautiful, innit. Did you write it, too?"

Giving a slight, flourishing bow, he nods a bit and grins, rather pleased with himself. He's always glad to get an audience, especially an appreciative one, and given the way she's appraising him, he thinks he's done pretty well for himself.

"Indeed, I did. I'm no hack that plays other people's songs. All of mine are original content."

"I see," she says, nodding understanding. That makes me a hack, I guess. "I certainly hope I'll get to hear your full repertoire sometime. I've no doubt that Thedas will be good fodder for your craft."

Glancing over towards Kirkwall, it looks like that song lasted exactly as long as needed to get shouting-distance away from the docks.

"When we get on the dock, you'll want to start paying close attention to your coinpurse. Your ah...plumage? Is likely to draw out the pickpockets."

"Pickpockets?" He whines a bit, shoulders slumping. Immediately, he reaches for what he's got left over from when he arrived and carefully tucks it in closer to his breast in hopes of preventing any possible theft.

"So is this place kind of like The Bits in Novigrad? Filled with unscrupulous characters, danger lurking in dark alleyways?"

Okay, the whining gets him a side-eye, and the question gets a dubious look. How the fuck is she supposed to know what some place in Novi-wherever is like?

"Sure, though that's mostly in Darktown. You won't end up there by accident, so don't worry about it. Lowtown is just poor people trying to live their lives and being made to work twice as hard for half as much of anything."

And then she points towards Hightown, literally above the rest of the city.

"And that is Hightown. Where the worst of the unscrupulous and dangerous characters live. Only they have money, so we call 'em nobility."

Balking a bit at the side-eye, he huffs. Darktown does sound like a sketchy place, but the nobility being the unscrupulous and dangerous? He feels a bit attacked by that, given his own status as a viscount, but then, he tells himself that he's not like most nobility. He doesn't take advantage of the poor. He's just a bard who likes to tell the story of one Geralt of Rivia.

He follows her pointed finger, quiet for a moment. Then, he sighs.

"I suppose you think all nobility are scum."

"Only the ones who treat elves like chattel."

So, like, most of them. Athessa starts to lead them to the tavern she has in mind, one of the not-filthy-but-not-clean-by-anyone's-standards ones.

"Are you gonna tell me the nobility don't exploit and oppress whole classes of people where you come from?" The quirk of her brow suggests she's teasing, though who can say what he'll read into that look.

When it comes to inns and taverns, Jaskier isn't too picky. Sure, he likes to be pampered and prefers finery, but that doesn't mean he'll slum with the rest of them when necessary. Now seems like one of those times as she leads him to a place of questionable repute, but he doesn't show any signs of not wanting to go in.

Instead, it's her comment that makes him tilt his head. Back home, elves aren't treated much better, and since Filavandral's most recent uprising, things could arguably be worse. Still, after meeting the king of the elves, he still holds some respect for them.

Glancing over at her, he notes the pointed ears for the first time. No wonder she doesn't like nobles.

"For what it's worth, I've respect for elves. I met their king, back home. Sure, he and his cohorts almost killed me, but I got this sexy lute out of it."

She whistles appreciatively — sarcastically — about Jaskier having met the elf king, but any commentary she could provide about the elves around here gets set aside to give the lute a dubious glance.

"What makes it sexy?"

Given his many years spent with the taciturn Geralt, Jaskier knows when he's being mocked. He manages a light glare at her before swinging his lute to his front so she can get a good look at it.

"Beautiful craftsmanship, enchanted to never lose its tune. Frankly, I'm surprised he gave it to me. Then again, his henchman, er, henchelf did smash the one I had before."

Wry humor pinches her brows together and she gives him a look about his self-correction. Henchelf? Really? But no matter; Athessa looks at the lute again, which is admittedly very fine indeed, but sexy?

"Seems like smashing the lute is a bit of an overreaction to it being out of tune," she muses, navigating through the tavern and looking for a familiar face. A familiar mustache.

"Or were they just harsh critics?"

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https://youtu.be/CE6TUfgAl_c

lmao what a perfect tune

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