WELCOME TO THE FREE CITIES!

[abraxasmods]

WELCOME TO THE FREE CITIES!

Welcome to The Free Cities! The portal exits outside the capital city of Cadens. The first impression of the city is its sheer size. It sprawls out across the landscape like a great hulking beast at rest. The wall that encircles it barely contains it, the buildings of Cadens practically bulging against its restraint.

The air here seems thicker somehow, tinged with a scent that’s acrid and smoky. Smog hangs high over the city, belched out by smokestacks that tower over the industrial district. The desert stretches out behind it, dotted with towers and dust clouds that disappear into the horizon. Multiple gates lead inside and each is staffed by soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms that wave a steady stream of people through without appearing to pay much attention. People are coming and going almost all of the time, to and from the outposts and areas of activity around the city proper. It’s difficult to tell just what’s out there beyond the impression of tall metal structures and a great deal of labor. Wagons carrying travelers to Libertas and Aquila roll out from the Travel Post outside the city wall.

Anyone who can sense magic will notice a much lower concentration here. No one will be stopped or questioned at the gate, even if the soldiers seem to take note of the fugitives from Thorne.

The activity and sheer number of citizens can be overwhelming. It’s crowded and loud and feels constantly in motion with everyone talking and yelling over each other. It’s easy to get swept up in the ever-moving throng or find oneself ducking into the mouth of a narrow alley just to breathe.

Anyone who’s willing to make their way to the northern part of the city and Portham Hall will find Prime Minister Marlo Reiner available to receive them.

Comments

[gynvael]

[ An irritated noise comes from his throat, but as he is not a child, unlike Jaskier, he resists swatting at him as Jaskier goes through the window again. He places his hand on the small of Jaskier's back in case Jaskier slips again. Unfortunately for the bard, Geralt isn't drunk and also has all of his reflexes back. He makes it off the roof with ease.

His brows furrow. ] Fuck off.

[ It's under his breath, because Ciri is sleeping, and he'll not wake her up. He makes his way to the sectioned bath—shared, but there's no one here at this hour. It isn't the cleanest, and not near as nice as Thorne's, but there's a tub and water. It'll do.

He strips off his shirt, stepping around Jaskier as he does. His clothes land on the floor with little care. Eventually, he's going to need something sturdier—more leather—but. A hell of a lot more than the shit Thorne put them in. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier does not quite hold back his snort, but it remains quiet as he makes his way to the bath. At least in the morn, she'll have plenty of time for her own hot -- or at least warm -- bath.

Jaskier musses up his hair once the door is closed, pulling off his chemise. Looking at it piled sadly on the floor, it does feel impertinent he gets his own set of clothing next. Regardless of its richness, he requires something that does not so solidly mark him as an escapee from Thorne.

It's not the first time the two of them have bathed together, though he much prefers the tub over some shitty frozen creek. So Jaskier isn't shy about taking him in, but more importantly --]

Your leg looks better. I noticed you weren't limping anymore. [And he had not mentioned so with Ciri around. Jaskier would happily bet his entire bag of coin Geralt had not mentioned that bite. He turns the water on as he's learned how to in Thorne, as hot as he can manage it. To his surprise, there is steam.] Healed on its own?

[gynvael]

[ Geralt, in turn, has long grown accustomed to Jaskier taking him in, and truthfully has rarely paid attention in the first place. So he doesn't look back as he steps into the tub while Jaskier runs the water. Not even when Jaskier brings up his leg.

Ciri had, in fact, noticed. Had actually remembered the injury he'd borne when he'd found her in those woods. It's part of the reason he believes her, without a doubt, when she says that they're in the wrong time. That it's possible their paths have been fully disrupted, in a way that can no longer be rectified. But that's a problem for the future. Right now, he wants to soak in this damn bath. ]

Mm. At last. [ It'd been feeling better even by the last couple of weeks, and once they escaped, the rest of the wound had taken care of itself. It still isn't entirely finished, but it's a pink scar now: one more for the collection.

He tilts his head. There's one thing he hasn't addressed—that he's pushed aside up until now. ] You made flowers.

[cointosser]

Could've mentioned it earlier. [Jaskier grumbles in lieu of I'm glad to hear it,, even though he is. He steps out of his trousers, moving to sink into the water. The frail curls of steam are encouraging, and the water is still quite warm as it rises around his skin.

If there is anything to appreciate about this world, it's their ability to move hot water without the use of maids. (Though he does miss the maids a bit.)

He sighs, pushing one of Geralt's legs with his own to make room, until he's in the water as deep as he can be. For a bit, he simply wants to soak. (Maybe it's a bit better with company.)

Jaskier cracks open an eye.] What? [He cups some water in a hand, dribbling down his neck.] Is that some sort of metaphor? If you're seeing bubbles, they're coming out of your ass.

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier's grumbling is met with a dismissive sound. When would he have time to bring it up? The water is warm, as promised, soothing an ache in his knee he hadn't noticed. Probably from accommodating that leg for so damn long.

He moves his leg aside, not in the mood to bicker over space. It isn't a small tub, but he's hardly compact in size and frankly Jaskier isn't really, either. Even if he does weigh but a feather to Geralt.

For a moment, he thinks Jaskier is deflecting. No. The bard doesn't realize. Geralt peers at him. Had he done it without noticing? What had triggered it? He knows Jaskier has magic now, but that requires effort. Concentration. ]

Out there. By the portals. Flowers bloomed under your feet.

[cointosser]

[Jaskier is very aware when Geralt stares at him, because it always has some secret meaning to it, which is often infuriatingly simple to understand if he gets what's happening.

He does not get it now. Jaskier rolls his eyes, plucking up a rough cloth to scrub at a leg, still caked in dirt from landing.]

What on earth? I can't make flowers, Geralt. I told you I only know one bloody spell. We fell in some. It's not like the portal was particularly picky about where it dumped us.

[gynvael]

[ There's a huff that borders on exasperation. He leans forward. He'd gathered Jaskier hadn't done it deliberately, but he hadn't realized Jaskier hadn't noticed at all. Hadn't noticed the magic spilling out of him. He'd thought Jaskier simply couldn't control it at the time. ]

We did not fall in any fucking flowers, Jaskier. [ Did it look like the entry gates were made of flower fields? Between the wine and sheer exhaustion, Jaskier's glib attitude makes his patience run shorter than usual. He reaches out to catch Jaskier's wrist mid-scrub. He's aware this is just some flowers, but it isn't only that. There's something going on he doesn't understand—that Jaskier is completely oblivious to—and he wants to know what in the hell it is. ] They were blooming. Where you stepped.

[ A curse? No. A side effect of going through the portal? It's possible. There's enough he doesn't know about this place. He doesn't need the mystery of why Jaskier sprouted flowers under his feet on top of it all. ]

[cointosser]

Oi! What are you being such a dick for? [He pulls at his wrist, going back to his scrubbing. It's not as if he's ever really been afraid of Geralt -- and he certainly isn't now -- but something about the intensity of his gaze and his probing questions leaves Jaskier feeling uneasy. Normally he wouldn't be much bothered by this, but the drink in him definitely leaves him a bit off-kilter and, if anything, makes the shift in his stomach even more apparent.

Geralt does not insist things like this. What, is he making fun of him? Because he knows one fucking spell? Ah, what about a second spell that's just about as useless! There's a spike in Jaskier's heart, and he can't quite tell if it's annoyance or anxiousness. The former certainly is more probable.] I'm trying to relax, not get a bunch of shit from you for trying to learn something --

[There's a snapping. It feels like one, to him, at least; and when he feels it, he knows it's somehow familiar. A snap, like a twang in his head, and he stares at Geralt as something green peeks through the white of his hair. The green curls out, tendrils looping tightly. Small purple flowers bloom at the tip.]

I --

[He isn't sure what to say. Was that...?

The vine reaches for him.]

Oh. Fuck me.

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier's growing irritation is both an irritation itself and also concerning. Geralt lets him go, if only because he isn't trying to piss Jaskier off. For once. He's asking a genuine damn question here. He can hear the spike in Jaskier's heart, and it raises a mild alarm in him. What is— ]

Hey. Calm down—

[ Oh, for. Fuck's sake. He doesn't need a mirror; he can both smell the bloom and feel a stir in his hair. The faint crackle of magic. Geralt takes a deep breath as he reaches up and plucks the purple flower out of his hair. (Of all the things.)

He holds it out between them, one eyebrow raised. Well? ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier can't really pinpoint what is going through his head in the moment. A lot of things, and nothing at all. He cannot divine why he recoils from the plant, why the sudden thought of it touching him seems horrible somehow. Why this, of all things, feels like the crux of an entire season of stress and fear and outrage.

His heart shudders in his chest as he pushes himself back as far against the other side of the tub as he can.]

I'm not doing that. I can't be.

[He is. He knows he is, because he can feel the magic. He curses under his breath, nearly springing out of the tub as he feels the soft velvet of flower petals underneath his hands, gripping the side of the tub as if he's going to break it.]

I can't -- I didn't learn to do this. I didn't even know you fucking could do this. And you telling me to calm down is making it worse! You never tell anyone to calm down!

[gynvael]

[ That's objectively not true; Geralt spends half his damn days telling folk to calm down so he can find out what creature this time ate the village baker. It's also not the point.

Jaskier's pulse is a stuttering rhythm. He's never seen Jaskier so—panicked. Without a monster snapping at him, at least. There's an array of petals, suddenly, in the water. If it isn't deliberate magic, what is it? Something powered solely by a heightened emotional state? He knows of mages and their conduit moments, but this has not been the case with the magic here. In this world. With Jaskier. It'd have happened weeks ago if it were.

So where in the hell is it coming from now?

He grips Jaskier's knee, knowing better than to grab his hands. ] Jaskier. [ Fuck. He both isn't sober enough for this and entirely too sober all at once. ] Breathe.

[cointosser]

[Okay, he does tell people, but it -- it's making it worse, either way. He sucks in air between gritted teeth, staring at the petals -- he knows immediately they're from a wisteria. How the fuck is he making wisteria petals? What did this to him? Where did this magic even come from?

Jaskier jerks, the touch breaking him out of his thoughts. He looks at Geralt, staring into his eyes.

All he'd wanted was a nice, relaxing bath. And it had not been relaxing in any sense of the word.

But he does breathe. He shakes the petals off of his hand and rubs his face, shaking it off. Fine. He can do... petal magic. Great. That's really helpful.] Easy for you to say. What have you got? A bit of fire? Great. I can make some grass for us to chew on. I'm sure it will be very helpful for our future life of whoever-the-fuck-knows. Couldn't have been something wonderful, could it? Like magical ice spears? Or big, bright arrows?

[Look, those just sound sort of interesting. Also terrifying. Nevermind. He'd probably impale himself if that had been the case.]

[gynvael]

[ He stares right back until he can hear Jaskier's heart begin to settle. Then he lets him go. Studying him. He isn't sure what to say. This has caught him more off guard than he wants to admit. There've been few constants in his life, but Jaskier has always been one: a bard, a human, (his friend), nothing more. And then.

In some ways, he understands. That fear that envelopes you when you feel your body is no longer yours. When there's a power that was never meant to belong to you crackling under your skin. It's wrong and it isn't, and eventually it settles. Eventually, you forget you were ever once anything else at all. ]

I don't know how this power has been made yours. [ His gaze is steady. ] But it is yours. You can use it. [ He finally sits back against the tub. The filthy water is lukewarm, and far less appealing than it was ten minutes ago. He wrings out his half-heartedly scrubbed hair. ] Some grasses are fatal to chew on. And some can heal.

[cointosser]

[He drops his hands from his face, letting them fall back into the water. His breath is soft again. Plenty would claim there w as no comfort to be found in a witcher, but Jaskier had known him far too long.

Actually, he's quite a bit glad he did not discover this while alone in the bath. He may have woken both of them up.]

I would bet a thousand crowns you never have thought there'd be a day you'd claim I had any power.

[He's too preoccupied to notice the water, which is a feat in and of itself. He lifts a hand and stares at it, as if he can see any indication of what made that happen. You made flowers. His memory goes back to the portal, their landing. The soft landing. Petals sticking to his boots.]

You're so infuriatingly practical sometimes. [He closes his eyes. Rubs the fingers of one hand together. The pull, magic like strings.

He opens his hand to several blades of lemongrass, the oils scenting the air.] Well? Would you like some grass to chew?

[gynvael]

[ Geralt snorts softly. Now that Jaskier's no longer flailing in the tub, he goes back to trying to finish scrubbing the layers of grime off his skin. He's so damn tired. Of everything, right now. Not that he expected anything to be less complicated once they escaped. It's just—

He's hardly had a chance to breathe for the past months. Even before the mages drew him from that forsaken fucking well. ]

Other than the power to dissolve a marriage before sundown? [ There's faint amusement there, though, hidden beneath the dry remark. Not his concern, that some find a bard more charming than the snoring drunkard they have waiting back home. (This is not him acknowledging Jaskier has any charm at all. Because he doesn't.)

He looks up as the citrus scent fills the air. Hm. He'd a feeling Jaskier would grasp it once he calmed down. Geralt reaches for one of the stalks. Jaskier's managed to summon not just any plant, but an exotic one on top of that. Or. Perhaps that's not so for the climate here. He wonders if that matters for Jaskier's power to work, or if he can grow anything with roots.

He hands back the stalk. His expression is thoughtful. ] I might, in fact.

[ He can't recreate his elixirs here; that much is without question. The ingredients require more than a handful of plants, common or uncommon. What he needs goes beyond that. But healing salves and draughts can work well enough. And unlike a Witcher's concoction, Ciri could use them. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier slaps a wave of water towards him.] You're hilarious, really!

[His heart is still pattering hard enough he can feel it, but it isn't so desperate. He has to remind himself this is nothing compared to going from a... a normal, magic-less person to one who can wield it with literally no training. (It's not going to be the first time he thanks the gods Yennefer is not here to see him like this.)

So he can make plants. That's. Completely normal. Isn't it? For a magic person? Fuck, he doesn't know how chaos works. He's pretty sure it doesn't work this way.

Actually, perhaps Yennefer's presence would be helpful. Though he doubted she would help him, even if her life were on the line.

He sighs, setting the grass aside. Now there's a pile of plants next to their tub, completely incomprehensibly.]

You might? For what? [His brain is firing too much and not enough. He busies himself by pulling the drain, draining the water to refill it with fresh, hot water. A bath in the middle of the bloody night gives them the opportunity, and he's not leaving until he's scrubbed every spot of dirt off of himself, until his skin has rubbed raw, if he must.] Well, suppose we could add a bit of spice to our food.

[Maybe. He isn't sure. What this means. Where it's come from. Geralt, he imagines, would tell him it doesn't matter: it's here now. He grabs some oil and begins massaging it into his wet hair, combing through the wet, curled strands. Careful to not think of plants in particular.] I suppose I have to practice it now. [It is a talent that may help them in the future. And considering this place is surrounded by desert... it's something to keep in mind.] Somehow we find ourselves on something resembling your Path again, but it's all cocked up.

[gynvael]

[ His lips quirk. Water sprays, and he sits against the side of the tub as Jaskier drains and refills it. A new experience, simply refilling a tub at will. It's useful.

Spice to food. Of course that's where Jaskier's mind goes, despite having witnessed the Witcher gather and brew his herbs for years. Geralt gives him a look that suggests Jaskier knows exactly what he means for what. For as long as Jaskier has this ability, he may as well make use of it. It'll be the only way they can learn more. About what it means. Where it came from.

He gives a little huff. ] The Path is just the Path, Jaskier. Fucked or not.

[ Whether it's taken him here or not—he's still walking it. Always will.

He hauls himself out of the tub, grabbing a clean but worn towel to dry himself off with. He rubs at his dripping hair. Jaskier wasn't wrong: he does feel better, with the layers of dust and sweat washed away. All this is a hell of a lot to think on. He's just not letting it stew in his mind. One damn step at a time. Right now, he wants another hour of sleep before sunrise. Then he's seeing what the city has to offer. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier makes sure his huff is much more bothered and much louder than Geralt's own. His heart is settling but he's still freaked out in a way he can't really pin down anymore. Or, rather... changes he does not want to voice to Geralt in particular. Because it feels like his body is not entirely his own anymore, now that this world... or the Singularity... can decide to alter it for him.

Give him access to powers he did not have before. And did nothing to earn.

He sighs, but after rinsing his head he wipes the water away to watch Geralt's exit from the tub, water cascading down his naked body. Far be it for Jaskier to be so foolish he gives up a free sight. (It does help to know that Geralt's body doesn't look terribly worse from wear, from his time in the dungeons.)]

Yes, thank you for updating me. It's not as if I've followed you on it for any length of time. [The sarcasm comes easily, but not so smoothly as before. He really should simply go back to bed. Or, ah, the floor, as it was.] You had better sleep this time. I know you haven't at all.

[There is the faintest amusement on his face as he says it, knowing the irony of mothering a Witcher about his bedtime habits.] You're already cantankerous enough as is.

[gynvael]

[ He leans his palms against the worn wooden table by the wall. Jaskier's sigh spills into the air. Geralt is tired. Doesn't care to hide it, either. Jaskier reads him too well. He has been following for a long time. Longer than Geralt's ever imagined he would, long enough that Geralt has gone from expecting Jaskier to leave at any moment to understanding that he even when he does, he'll return soon enough.

Except at the end, on that mountain. And really—he wonders. If he'd gone back that day instead of riding off without a word, would Jaskier have forgiven him? For Jaskier, here, it's been only days. For Geralt, he'd left for a year, unwilling to hold onto something so important and so fragile at the same time. Something too easily lost. Something he does not want to admit that maybe he needs. (A friend.)

He turns his head. His eyes linger on Jaskier's face. Jaskier is studying him—gaze roaming, unabashed—and though it's hardly the first time, he lets himself indulge in letting it happen for a few moments. Then he plucks his trousers off the floor. ]

I'll be full of good cheer in the morning. [ He tosses a clean towel Jaskier's way—leaves without much else said. He'll sleep. He rolls up the spare blanket, leaves it on a chair for Jaskier to use, and occupies a corner by the wall for himself. ]