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ha, she says to herself, it’d be okay if you poked around at that idea you had, you could write a short fluffy oneshot in that new shiny tv fandom everyone’s super into, that’d be fun, ha ha ha, sure
five thousand words later: oh no i haven’t even established the premise
ha, she says to herself, it’d be okay if you poked around at that idea you had, you could write a short fluffy oneshot in that new shiny tv fandom everyone’s super into, that’d be fun, ha ha ha, sure
five thousand words later: oh no i haven’t even established the premise
One would think that wartime would be a good opportunity for a bard. So much material, and so many people hungry for meaning, and who better to combine them than a man with a gift for poetic imagery?
But Jaskier was no bright-eyed youth anymore, and hard experience had taught him that wars were as terrible for bards as they were for anyone else. No, the good time to be a bard was after the war was over, as the dust was settling– you figured out who’d come out on top, and made nice songs for them, and they rewarded you for it, and then you also could use all that material and meaning-analysis-giving to make beautiful songs so people would cry and feel better and give you money. That was all well and good and could be a great boon to any bard’s career.
But first you had to survive the war, which involved several things Jaskier was good at but did not really let on about: common sense and keeping one’s mouth the fuck shut.
