Work Text:
It could be worse, Jaskier muses, looking up at the small circle of sky visible at the top of the dried up well. At least the bandits had taken his lute so he didn't land on it when they threw him in. He can always recover it later. They didn't even injure him, the group of them just grabbing him before he'd recovered from the truly vicious hangover he'd been sporting. Bloody witchers and their alchemy.
It could also be better, to be fair, he is at the bottom of a well with half with clothing and no gear. And the well is far, far too narrow for him to fully shift and fly out, likely not even wide enough if he only partially shifts and pulls out his wings in this smaller form. There's not any moisture within easy reach either, Jaskier'd noticed the stream bed he'd passed not too long ago had also dried up. There'd been a few rumours of a drought in the area but Jaskier'd ignored them as it was the wrong time of year, but it looks like there's some substance to them after all. He bangs his head on the wall a couple of times, stone cool against his forehead. It doesn't help the residual pain from either his hangover or being thrown 300 feet or so down a hole in the ground onto gravel. He's lucky he's durable.
Squinting at his hands, he shifts enough that his forearms and hands strengthen, shimmering blue scales appearing, his fingers curling into claws. He flexes them experimentally then digs them into one of the gaps between stones, making sure it holds before tugging off his socks, grumbling about his stolen boots, and doing the same for his feet. He considers also manifesting his tail, for balance if nothing else, but it's built for swimming rather than likely to be overly useful for climbing.
Rolling his shoulder and frowning up at the height of the walls, he debates just staying down here. Its cool and the dimness is helping his headache, and if the bandits didn't have his lute he might have seriously considered it, at least until he got hungry enough to try climbing.
Before he braves the climb he sits and meditates, it's not as easy for him outside water (or as it is for Geralt at any point), brain never fully calming the way it needs to. But, despite that he breathes deeply and reaches his awareness out, searching for any nearby water sources. But even the ground water appears thinner than it should be, and it's not worth pulling it out of the rocks to lift him up. Otherwise there's just a deep, deep river. One far too far away for him to influence. Salt water comes easiest to him after all.
But then, suddenly, something seems to wake close by. He becomes aware of a tiny consciousness - a water spirit, Jaskier thinks, either of the creek or the well itself. Weak and tired.
He feeds it some power, runes ticking against his wrists as he focuses, and it manifests by his knee, maybe half the size of his palm. It looks like something a little to the left of a newt, with delicate dragonfly wings, but its skin is cracked and dry, too dull even in this translucent form. Its small crest is drooping, and its cries weak. All likely the result of the drought.
Gently running a knuckle along its head, he hums a blessing, trying to reassure it. Retracting the claws on one hand Jaskier scoops the spirit up, tucking it inside his shirt and nudging it away from the tears so it'll stay safe and close to his skin, his runes appearing and shifting where it touches him.
Then, seeing no other option, he shifts his claws out again and starts climbing. It's slow and careful work, he has to make sure his claws are deep enough to hold him, but shallow enough he can easily pull them out to climb higher. That there's very little moisture in the air unsettles him, especially as he'd spent the last month in the ocean along the Redania. If he falls he can't cushion himself, and he can't risk falling on his passenger, so he doesn't rush the way he might if he was alone.
He doesn't even notice he's humming until he realises he's improvised a new section to the song he's been working on. He immediately lets go with one hand, reaching to a pocket he usually carries his notebook in before remembering he was left with absolutely nothing, and that the silk is torn anyway. The growl he lets out echoes down the well shaft and he hears the frantic fluttering of birds wings from above him, the little spirit pressing closer where it rests against his belly.
It doesn't actually take him that long to climb out, his shoulders and forearms burning from the strain. Not much use for practising it when you can fly. He collapses on his back, breathing heavily and automatically reaching out all his senses.
Unexpectedly he senses water, a very small amount but more than he expected. He tugs it towards him with the twitch of a finger and is almost smacked in the face with his waterskin, obviously missed by the bandits. He doesn't bother lifting his head, just guiding a mouthful so he can drink. Then he shifts back to appearing human, flexing his fingers and toes with a grumble that his throat probably shouldn't be able to make in this form.
Once he feels vaguely close to functional, for the given value he usually is, Jaskier gently guides the tiny spirit out of his shirt and into his waterskin. It cheeps appreciatively as it submerges, and trills a little melody he is definitely going to adapt later, maybe into a lullaby, and starts glowing slightly as it swims little loops, skin starting to smooth over and regain its sheen.
Looping the waterskin over his shoulder, he focuses his magic again, runes appearing in rings around his wrists. After a moment an echoing song reaches him on the wind, far more distant than he expected, he might have lost some time between thrown down the well and waking. But he turns in that direction, following the enchantments he'd placed on his loot, and looks further up at the hill with a frown. Then shrugs, he can't do a full shift while safely carrying the waterskin and spirit, but he summons his wings, stretching them to their full span for a moment before throwing himself into the air.
He has hunting to do.