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abraxaslogs2021-08-28 09:41 pm
abraxasmods) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-08-28 09:41 pm
Entry tags:
- !event,
- !npc,
- alina starkov; the hanged man,
- amos burton; the lovers,
- cirilla of cintra; the devil,
- coraline finch; the tower,
- estinien wyrmblood; the hermit,
- geralt of rivia; the hanged man,
- gideon nav; strength,
- hector; the magician,
- himeka sui; the fool,
- jaskier; the sun,
- jon sims; the high priestess,
- jon snow; the emperor,
- kiryu kazuma; the tower,
- sam wilson; justice
WELCOME TO THE FREE CITIES!
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.
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]