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

[wiedzminka]

She does not understand this feeling. The way it grips her, lungs so full with it she can barely breathe. Her eyes roam the grounds, catching on the parapets, lingering on each set of steps leading upward, taking in the way the fortress is set so neatly carved into the mountain, as much a part of it as though it had always been here. There is an old, solid weight to it, improbable as that is in its existence within this liminal space; it has the feeling of a building lived-in, died-in, of centuries.

Geralt's touch startles her out of her almost trancelike reverie. Ciri turns to look at him with a jolt, and for a moment, she looks--

Younger, spring-green eyes wide and round, a faint dusting of freckles across her nose. The scar is very nearly gone.

She catches Geralt's hand.

"Thank you. For bringing me here."

[gynvael]

He blinks. The sudden youth in her face startles him. It’s—fuck. He’s never seen her as a child. When he’d created her in this world, she’d had no real features. He’s no idea what she had looked like growing up. But he realizes, to her, he would know. He would have watched her become a young woman. He would’ve been there for her.

For a moment, the loss is sharp. All this stolen time between them.

Then she grasps his hand and he looks back at her. I never brought you here. He knows that’s not what she means. That she only knows that he took her here now, in the Horizon.

He doesn’t answer. The words catch and die on his tongue. He hops off Roach instead, waiting for Ciri to follow him inside. Toward the large wooden doors that lead into the main hall. She will find it familiar, too. Just emptier than usual. More echoes within the walls.

“This is your home, too,” he says. “Make it as you like.”

[wiedzminka]

She follows his lead, slipping off her horse and into the snow that crunches softly beneath her boots. Despite it, she does not feel cold -- only the pleasant sort of chill that nips at the nose and cheekbones, leaving a flush and a certain incongruous warmth in its wake.

At first, she leads her horse by the reins, looking around while they walk, taking in the rest of the courtyard. The training equipment, in particular. At these, she decides to let go of the sleek black mare, knowing she will stay put (or not, and Ciri shall will her back when she needs her). The horse pauses, watching her master wander the courtyard on the way to the door of the Keep itself, zigzagging slowly away from Geralt and then back again before rushing to catch up as he approaches the door. Then, the horse plods away to go find somewhere out of the snow.

When the heavy wooden doors shut behind them, the great hall seems to open up. Any candles unlit on their black iron chandeliers flicker warmly to light. The firepit crackles. What should have been cold stone walls and empty tables feel surprisingly welcoming, though their emptiness is noted with a fleeting ache of sadness, the stray thought that it feels as though there should be someone else here too. The tree also fills her with a soft discomfort, a melancholy that feels well-worn and inevitable, the type that every person carries in their hearts, just a little bit, with their natures constantly knowing about the fact of death.

Ciri steps toward it, reaching out to brush her fingers very gently over the edge of one dangling medallion. There is a wolf etched upon it, visible through the deep pockmarks that curve through one side, like someone had hammered uneven nails in and yanked them out. She looks at it for a moment. It is such a strange sensation, feeling without knowing.

When she turns to survey the hall and Geralt once again, Ciri's clothes have changed. The cuirass has faded away, any subconscious need for armor gone in the safety of this place; the clothes are similar, but look softer and a little looser, more comfortable, though her sword remains on her back.

"I think it looks perfect."

She just says that, not knowing exactly why she thinks it. But she does.

"Show me the rest?"

[gynvael]

She is the first to approach the tree. Even Geralt’s not touched it, though not out of avoidance. More—it’s always been there. As embedded in the floors as the benches and tables. It’s possible there might be one or two missing medallions—his memory isn’t clear, the exact number—but they sway gently under the brush of her fingers. (He wonders what they will do, at home, without his medallion to bring back and hang with the others.)

His gaze lingers on Ciri for a moment. She looks right at home here. The same way, he thinks, he’d felt when Jaskier would arrive and stay for a drink. At ease. An unquestioning sense that things were exactly where they should be.

He blinks. Of course. The rest.

The fortress is much larger in the real world ; in here, it’s limited to a handful of rooms upstairs. One is his; the others are empty. He supposes he could construct the underground area, as well. He’s just. He hasn’t. He finds himself reluctant to recreate that part of the keep. Still, he takes her up the winding staircase. His room is down the hall. Sparsely decorated, as usual. It’s why, when he opens the door, he notices immediately it’s changed. There’s more than just his sheathed swords, a bed, some candles.

There is a flower, on the dresser. Jaskier’s flower, glowing with an otherworldly flame, the one he’d brought for her from a strange domain of fire. And beside it, a small handful of familiar items: a single candy inside a clam shell, a soft stuffed bird, a crown of daisies. Gifts. From the others, for the girl who wasn’t.

Geralt hesitates. Fuck. He doesn’t know how to explain. She will remember once this is over if he gives them to her, and she will ask how he’s come to have these things if he tells them they’re hers. They’re obviously not gifts that came from him. It also doesn’t feel right to keep them from her now that they’ve. Appeared. She should have them.

He reaches for the flower. “These are yours.”

[wiedzminka]

Technically, it's possible there isn't anything up the stairs, but Ciri seems to know, innately, that there should be. She doesn't catch Geralt's look, too busy looking around herself, taking in every detail as they walk. Pausing at the top of the steps for a moment, Ciri peers over the railing to observe the great hall from above before turning to catch up to Geralt once more with the quick, excited movements of someone who simply can't wait to see what comes next.

He shows her down the hall and to a room that must be his (for some reason, she's quite sure it must be), where she lingers in the doorway and looks around expectantly. It's not until Geralt steps further inside to approach the small collection of oddities on the dresser that Ciri follows, letting the door stay half open behind her.

"They are?"

She looks surprised, but reaches out to take the flower from Geralt's fingers, admiring it curiously. It is beautiful, a fierce little thing, glowing softly in her hands. Her eyes move over the other items. They seem unfamiliar to her, more unfamiliar than the keep, even though she has no memory of any of it. Still, if Geralt says they are hers, she believes him.

Looking up again at Geralt, with an innocent curiosity, she asks, "Where is my room?"

[gynvael]

For awhile, Geralt leans against the doorway, watching. She hums with an eager sort of energy, the kind that's never within these walls. He thinks, she must be the first to have set foot in here and been raised here without any memories of the violence that befell it or the horrors that lie beneath it. To her, it's just.

Home.

He glances up sharply. Which one. Somehow, it'd not occurred to him—of course she'd have a room. He doesn't know which one should be hers, which one she might've been given.

He peers out of the hallway, taking a step. He could choose one right now, but that doesn't feel right.

"Which one feels like yours?"