[ The portal spits him out on the other side: disorienting, stomach lurching. When he looks back, there is no portal. No way back. She isn't gone; he knows that. So why does it feel as though she is? It'd be different if she'd simply chosen another city, if she'd even run. But she hasn't. She's staying in the one place he can't reach, where he knows he can't possibly do anything if...

When his fingers sink into the cool dirt, though—he looks up, pushes Yennefer out of his mind. Searches for Ciri and Jaskier at once. Searches and does not find. A spike of fear sends his heart into his throat. Where the fuck are they? If the sudden rush of his senses inside Thorne had hit him hard him, it's nothing compared to now: there are thousands of bodies, a million sounds and smells. Things he'd not felt for weeks, not only because of the loss of his abilities but because there was nowhere near this many people in the dungeons. He'd never set foot in the towns of Thorne.

He shuts his eyes. He can't pick out any particular scent when he should be able to. It should be easy. He's found Jaskier how many damn times in the overflowing streets of Novigrad? But here, now, he can't. Every time he breathes in, it's just the acrid stench of smog and sweat, horses and people. And he thinks—he can't lose them again. He can't lose her again.

He opens his eyes again. Ignores the ice building in his veins as he stares into the crowd. For that flash of ash blond, for the mop of brown hair and that lute that never leaves Jaskier's hands. ] Ciri. Cirilla. [ Shit. ] Jaskier.

[ It's late night when Geralt finally steps into the Horizon for the first time since they were forcibly dragged there. His trust in it remains low, but there are two things he does believe: that the local inhabitants of this sphere cannot enter and that it is, currently, the only method of communicating with those left behind beyond easily intercepted letters. 

He passes by the snowy mountains first. The cabin still stands, same as ever. Lilac bushes; small yellow flowers. Campfire with cold ashes. Some part of him is afraid he might see the shadow of the girl, flitting about. He tears every piece of it down without looking, without wanting to know what lurks. It is different this time, building against the instinct that tells him how fucking unnatural it all feels. Quicker. He shapes something, not because he cares to have a place in this hollow arena but because he knows he should. Somewhere he can speak to her, if needed. (If she comes). Somewhere he can retreat if he needs...time.

Deciding what to build comes easily. What else? The walls of the stone keep rise, snow covers the ground, and the Blue Mountains loom in the distance, a view that's little more than just that. Real enough to look at, though. The Kaer Morhen that sits here is entirely from memory, without change, without effort to smooth its battleworn edges, or hide the literal bones half-buried under the heavy snow. Only difference is its smaller yard, the fewer rooms that occupy the inside. The snow drifts down in small flakes, and the white powder under his boots is fresh.

The path that goes up is steep but not too rough. Most of the time, the gates are unlocked. Geralt can be found here in the keep, either rearranging the sword rack that sits outside or regaining his edge on wooden stilts high above the ground. Three months without a sword in his hand hasn't sat well with him. If anyone walks inside, they're likely to spot the chestnut mare that sits in her stable. Just don't ask about the giant skeleton that's casually there alongside everything else. Long story.

On occasion, Geralt might stop by your domain instead if something catches his eye. Or hell—might be he's riding by and you've called him over. Who knows? ]

[ The second thing he does in the Horizon is make good on his promise to Sam. Hard to say if the man made it out; Geralt's trusted that Sam knows what he's doing, but he's all too aware of the dangers of waiting too long: spell collapses early, portals destabilized, an unexpected interference. He hadn't gotten to stay behind to make sure Sam or anyone else came through all right. Taking both Jaskier and Ciri somewhere safe, far away from the portal's drop point, had been his priority.

Even so. Geralt won't let himself worry unless something proves to have gone wrong. He hops on Roach and ventures towards the blue house by the water. The warmth as he draws near is familiar. He finds the house unchanged: trimmed white, a willow tree in the yard. A good sign. No others around, either. He inks less of a note and more of a rough image: a sculpture that marks an area in the Aquila marketplace. And one word: dusk. The parchment is signed only with a G.; the stroke is simple, precise, but with an archaic edge. He slips it under the door; makes sure none of its edges are visible.

At dusk, he goes where he's indicated. His appearance is far less rough than it'd been in the dungeons, with clothes that fit and his hair actually washed. Tucked behind the narrow alley between merchant carts, it isn't immediately apparent he's waiting for someone. Geralt is not looking at anyone who passes by just outside the alleyway; he doesn't need to anymore (finally, at fucking last). Instead, he's watching nothing in particular, gaze lingering at an absent point in front of him. Only when he hears footsteps, catches that familiar scent, does he push off from the wall. ] Took you long enough.

[ The reality of it is that Geralt's not indulged in a drink as much as he'd prefer. Part of it is because he's spent the first few days too on edge to let himself relax; the other part is purely monetary. Geralt's not unused to being without coin, but he's never been without his gear. Or his horse. And there isn't a whole lot he can do when he's separated from his swords. Separated from the entire hunting monsters thing altogether. At least for the time being, until he can catch wind of some contract or other.

But: he's tired. He's tired of not knowing what the fuck is happening back in Thorne with Yen, he has a few coins to rub together, and he needs a damn drink. So he's here, in the cheapest watering hole he can find stuffed in the winding alleys of Libertas. Despite situating himself in a corner, where he can keep one eye on the door, Geralt's not completely opposed if anyone decides to invite themselves to his table.

Not that he'll give much of a glance up. Consider your company accepted solely by the fact that he hasn't told you to fuck off. ]

Don't expect any rounds on me.

[ feel free to find Geralt around the Free Cities or in Horizon and start anything you like! He's likely to be drinking and doing some simple labour for easy money; he is prone to being in Libertas where he blends in best with the unsavoury crowd, but you can find him between any of the cities. Either way, he's ripe for bothering.

Or hit me up at discontinued or his plotting comment if you want to hash out something more specific. ]