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[lettenhove]

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.

Comments

[sulahnan]

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?"