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

[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. ]