abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] here in this garden of bones

[ Beyond a brief stop by Nero's room back in Nocwich, Geralt's found few chances to look in on the younger man. Physically, he knows Nero is all right. But that isn't the point. Given Josselyn's involvement, the Council—

Geralt can put what happened behind him in the Free Cities. Not many reminders around him. No shrines, no gods, no rituals. Solvunn is not the same.

A few weeks on, he steps into the Horizon to look for Nero. Rides his motorbike, searching for the familiar shitty white van before he pulls him at the domain Nero calls the bloody palace. Don't ask him what the fuck it means or why; that's simply the title Nero gave him.

The ground gives a violent shudder under his feet. He raises an eyebrow. No need to question whether Nero is here, then.

Geralt pushes open the door—to a jagged row of gnashing teeth. He ducks, the monster leaps over him, and pins Nero to the sticky ground.

Hm. ] Fine company you've got.

Edited 2023-05-03 03:32 (UTC)

[The panther that used to annoyingly dog Nero's steps in the Horizon now seems even more alert now, picking her head up with her ears back as the doors to the bloody palace open. It's enough of an unexpected distraction that Nero turns his head.]

Oh, Ger --

[A rake of claws throws him backwards, giving the Chaos just enough time to leap across the entire arena right on top of him, tearing through his coat, shirt, and skin.

There's a wet sound, the smell of blood splattering, and then a single bullet shot as a gun materializes in his hand. Good ole Blue Rose.

The Chaos explodes into demonc blood, splattering the ground with his own. With a groan, Nero sits up, an arm across his stomach to hold his guts inside, where they're supposed to be. This is entirely on Geralt. Dick.] Couldn't knock first, could ya?

[Ugh. He gets up, shaking blood off his free hand as his stomach knits itself back up, intestines remaining in their safe, squishy cavity. You know, this is like the third time in as many months. Hell of a record.

Unfortunately, while it might not have bothered him before, it sort of shakes him up now. Shadow growls at Geralt, setting her head back down with her tail slapping the outcropping of broken marble columns she lays on. Nero keeps an arm around his stomach. It's not instantaneous anymore, the healing. This is slow. He can watch it work. Skin knitting over skin, but still the pulsating, grey mess of bloodied organs underneath.] Shit. You never get used to that.

[ In retrospect, he should know better than to assume Nero has any fine control over his own creations, and realize they would simply rip him to shreds upon interruption. He frowns at the wet noise of entrails hitting the stone floors.

Doesn't sound much better while Nero squashes them back inside. ]

Came to see how you were doing. [ He crouches down beside Nero and offers him a hand. Ignores the growling cat. ] But I suppose you've answered that.

[ Coping, in other words. However one goes about it. Istredd is hiding inside his library, Geralt is building a small bed for Jaskier's (his) new pet. Life moves forward, and so do they. But Nero has become...not his responsibility, exactly, but someone who deserves his efforts and time. Perhaps he sees more of himself in Nero than he'll admit. A younger version of him, with a temper that had not yet evened out through age and a penchant to take foolish risks.

A notion that the world can still be made better if you kill enough of the monsters in it. ]

Edited 2023-05-05 22:31 (UTC)

Oh, doing swell. Just, you know, keepin' in shape.

[Nero takes the offered hand, shooting Shadow a glare from over Geralt's substantial shoulder. By the time Nero gets back to his feet, the wound is mostly gone, but he's still covered in blood.

Part of the reality. He could wish it away, but -- honestly, Nero doesn't think that way. So here he is, meeting Geralt, covered in blood again.

It's like some things never change.]

You worried about me, old man? [He smiles, clapping Geralt on the shoulder.] Fit as a fuckin' fiddle.

And what shape is that? [ Geralt lifts an eyebrow. ] A puddle of viscera?

[ He stands with Nero, unfazed by the blood and gore stuck to the man. Or the dead monster on the ground. He steps around it, curious if his gifted basilisk has made an appearance more than once. It has not escaped his notice that Nero created an arena to kill beasts in and a van that travels with him. That's home, for Nero.

Having learned Nero does not drink (something he'll not ever comprehend), Geralt offers instead the dish Nero introduced him to before shit went sideways into the fucking moon: a hotdog, topped with the liquid cheese and crunchy pieces. ]

Mm-hm. [ Geralt adds nothing further, but the doubt that colours his tone is evident. Nero's physical well-being is not what he's questioning.

But they needn't talk about it. He isn't Sam. He's simply here to be here. Nero, he thinks, will broach the topic on his own, given the room to do so. ]

Ooh, look out, folks! He came armed with jokes.

[Nero spreads his arms to say, viscera, what viscera? I'm fine and dandy. Not being human has its perks, as much as it doesn't.

The conversation, even to Nero, feels stilted. Awkward. Maybe 'cause he's forcing it out of himslef. HJe hasn't been damn near as quiet as he has since getting out of that pit.

It isn't dying. It isn't even comin' close. If he was afraid of dying, he'd be shit in his line of work. It was --

It was when he realized if he was gone, Kyrie was gonna be alone. For real. Their whole family --

Nero looks between Geralt's face and what he's holding out: the same hotdog Nero made him in that crappy gas station months back. And he can't help but give the guy a look, like he's making fun, because he'd just lost his guts a second ago. But the demon's dead, a sprawling, bloody lizard of a thing, and.

Yeah, maybe he's hungry.]

You are so weird. [But Nero's taking the dog and taking a bite, because the shit is good and -- wait, what is it with everyone giving him food now? Is this like, a pity thing?] And what about you, huh? You had a lot goin' on at home, last time we talked about it.

[ Just one joke. Since it's been used, Geralt offers no more. He finds the nearest surface to sit on, unbothered by any awkwardness in the air that might be there.

A shrug answers the look. ] You don't drink.

[ What else is he to offer for a shit time if not liquor or food? Geralt understands two languages, and those are it. Notably, Geralt has no hotdog of his own. He's drinking out of a bottle instead—unmarked, the sort of glass jug one would find in the stores of Kaer Morhen.

As for home— ]

Always something. [ Nothing new. ] Ciri's safe. Dean didn't make it home.

[ So that conversation they had once, about what might need to be done—it isn't relevant. Not anymore. He's trying to put his focus on his family. The ones who are left. (Lately, he's started to include Nero in that category.) ]

[Nero gives Geralt a quizzical look with a hotdog stuffed halfway into his mouth. He's not sure what not drinking has to do with hotdogs, but it's still an awesome hotdog -- and the top's still crunchy! Though he wouldn't mind, like, a lime slush to go with it...

(Yeah, he could make it. He doesn't. The palace itself is weird enough for him. And he's never been someone who expects to get what he wants the moment he wants it.)

Nero chokes on the last bite, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand -- gloved, now that he's in the palace. His stomach drops as his gaze hardens. He only met the guy once, but...]

The demon?

[ Food and liquor is one of the rare things Geralt has grown comfortable to making. Perhaps it comes from how much eating and drinking occurs in the Horizon between Sam's gatherings, Julie's parties, and Himeka's cooking.

He glances over as Nero inhales the bread the wrong way. A frown draws his brows together. ]

He wasn't a demon. [ It's complicated. Also no longer relevant, now that Dean is gone. Geralt grows quiet. ] Perhaps it's for the best.

[ In a sense. Geralt does believe that, if only because he's aware of what Dean wanted, what he had damn near begged him for. But this is not how he wanted things to end. Still, he's told Nero for reasons other than grief; Nero had not been friends with the man like that. It's that Nero, he knows, was concerned about Dean's steady corruption, and so...now it's over. Nothing to be worried about any longer. ]

[Nero's confusion is plain on his face. Well, was he or was he not a fuckin' demon? He was turning into one, for sure. He doesn't need Geralt's word on that -- the Devil Bringer confirmed it, even if it was only a flicker. Something was demonic in that guy, and Nero can't help but have his first thoughts be that it won. Took over somehow.

Like it always does.

He clicks his tongue. It sounds like a classic possession to him -- a successful one -- but like usual, Geralt doesn't give a rat's shit amount of detail. And, for once, he won't push it. If the guy is gone, then... well, problem took care of itself, didn't it?]

Maybe. It's still a loss. [Nero isn't a hugger, but he does give Geralt a firm hand on his shoulder.] Sorry, Geralt. He didn't seem like a bad guy. Had killer taste in food. Dunno how I can help, but... here if you need it. Figure you don't, though. [He pauses.] Wanna kill somethin'?

[ The confusion is clear on Nero's face. Geralt doesn't bother to rectify it. The truth is irrelevant, now that Dean is gone. Except...

He's aware no body was recovered. But after a month, more, what is there left to find? Were Dean to survive, that could mean nothing good. It would not be some miracle, only an occurrence that indicates something far worse has surfaced. And though he and Dean were not friends for long, a couple of years together is still time spent he seldom chooses to grant.

His eyebrow lifts. Mm. Perhaps this is the other reason he decided to tell Nero what happened. They have similar ideas of getting past it. ]

What have you got?

[Shocker that Geralt doesn't have anything else to add. Another guy possessed by a demon, and another dead demon. It's just another day in the life of a devil hunter, right? Just. One of the shittier ones. You never want to lose someone to the demon.

But it happens. And he figures Geralt took care of it. He never seemed like the kind who would hesitate.

Nero claps his hands together.] Hoped you'd say that. Let's see... [He turns around the Palace clears itself; Shadow gives an annoyed growl as the column she was sleeping on disappears underneath her. The traces of Nero's blood mixed with the demon's erases itself. For a second, it's like watching a pit in a bowling alley reset the pins; the room turns blank, and rebuilds itself as it stretches around them. It is still undeniably an arena, but cracked castle walls rise around them, with tufts of grass growing between the cobblestone built at their feet.

Even to Nero, the sound of horse hooves on stone is unmistakable.

So this is what the Palace picked. Nero sort of made the Palace as a place to train, but it sort of... runs itself. Whenever he walks in wanting to kill something, there's something for him to kill. No thought in it. Just whatever's the demon de jour.

And for Geralt, it's a knight. A knight astride a skeletal horse, glowing with blue flames. Nero knows the trick here; he's talked with Nico on the equus daemonicus, 'cause some of that shit simply doesn't make sense. It just. Works that way anyway.

The demonic knight on the back of the horse faces Geralt, drawing its sword from its waist. The geryon stomps the ground.

Nero sniffs, stepping back.] You know, if it gets too much, you can totally tag-team me in. Promise I won't let you die, grandpa.

[ The ground rumbles. Geralt stands up, already reaching for his silver blade. He's seen the monsters in these walls. The ones Nero showed him. (The ones he fought in their strange dreamscape adventures.) They're familiar in their own way: twisted lifeforms that crawled forth from another realm.

But there is a humanoid edge to the knight that rides forth. Curious, when and where Nero encountered this thing. ]

Comforting.

[ He circles the waiting kinght. He usually studies his targets first. This is, probably, where he and Nero differ. Geralt arrives prepared: the right weapons, the right tools, the right knowledge. He seldom allows himself to be caught off-guard with a monster he doesn't understand well. A problem, considering it happens in Abraxas more often. The perils of landing in a completely new sphere.

He can spy the monster's armour, though, and the steed's fiery blue hooves—and that's all he has time to do before it charges at him. The oversized sword scrapes against the stone floors. Geralt dives to the left, rolling far to keep his distance while he sizes up the beast. It's quick for something so large, but not agile; the movement of its sword is an easy tell with how heavy it is.

When he finally moves in to strike, it's to aim for what anyone should when their opponent is on horseback: for the animal's fragile legs. ]

Why's that sound like sarcasm?

[Nero huffs at him. Okay, it'd sounded like sarcasm when he said it, but he'd sort of meant it. Just 'cause Geralt's fought monsters doesn't mean he's ready for every sort of demon.

Looks like the Palace really wants to fuck with him.

Nero hops onto a broken section of rock wall, his legs dangling down where Shadow curls up in the shaded grass. They both watch Geralt with full attention, taking in his movements. He's fast. Not surprising. The most important part of staying alive's being fast or being durable. You have to be at least one of them.

Fast, and patient. At least one of those, Nero isn't. He's about to tell him to get a move on when the knight makes the decision for them. The geryon's hooves hit the grass so hard it tears up, clumps of plant and dirt flying through the air.

It was a good shot. Geralt's sword doesn't hesitate, and strikes one scaled leg, drawing a blue spurt of blood. But as the horse rears back with a scream, there's a woomph, the air sucked out of the atmosphere. A blue sphere expands from the point of the horse's leg, and that's it --

The trick. The blue splash of blood freezes in the air. The grass stills completely. A dragonfly's wings caught, still, like it flew into amber. And that sphere expands in an effort to envelope Geralt --

A sphere where time has stopped. Completely.]

[ Occasionally, Geralt thinks something like the Horizon could've been of use when he was training as a boy. Illusory creatures, summoned from the mind, in a place where pain and exertion are real enough, but the true threat of death is absent.

But then, he imagines the older Witchers would have rejected the notion. Claimed they needed to face the real world. Thrown them into the gnashing maw of a basilisk, anyhow.

Blood spurts. The steed slows not near as much as he'd have preferred; as its hooves strike the ground hard enough to shake it, he feels the hum from his medallion, vibrating against his chest. It catches his attention before the growing bubble does. He starts to move out of its path—not yet recognizing what it does, but understanding full well he wants to be the fuck away from it.

He isn't quick enough to keep his sword hand from getting caught, though. That's what makes him stumble. He sees the charge coming. His shield stops the horse's hooves from caving his ribs into his lungs, but not the sweep of the knight's sword that sends him flying straight into a shattered wall.

The one Nero is perched upon.

He smacks into the other man with a grunt. They roll in a tangle of limbs, bouncing across the stone floors. ] Fuck.

[Nero is not a silent audience on the sidelines; he whoops when Geralt gets his first hit in, as the horse screams. Good -- those geryon things are absolute bastards. Besides, watching Geralt's fun. He's quick, brutal, and doesn't take risks. He might not know what a geryon can do, but he's not fucking around to find out, either.

Fast. Not fast enough, though.

Nero gives a laugh when the cavalier's sword sails right into the Witcher, tossing him across the arena like a wad of used tissue.

Straight towards --

Nero sighs right before Geralt's body slams into him, tumbling him backwards off his perch; Shadow roars and catches herself with a snarl, curling back up as if she'd never been touched. Nero hits the ground and keeps rolling, rolling, until he rolls straight back to his feet, brushing dust off of himself. He picks Red Queen back up from where she's fallen, securing her right against his back again. The geryon gives a triumphant snort, the cavalier turning the horse around to face Geralt down again, face unmoving. Dark clouds begin to swirl above the arena, turning from light grey to dark shadows.

Thunder rolls.]

Too much for those old bones, huh? [He offers Geralt a hand up, if he wants it, but the grin on his face is just a plain shit-eating one.] Don't tell me one demon's too much for you.

[Well, technically two. Horse and rider are separate.]

[ Had they both been human, the force of the collision would have shattered a few bones. As it is, the crunch bruises, but nothing breaks. ]

Fuck off.

[ It's good-natured as Geralt gets back up. He circles the demon as thunder distorts their surroundings. The interior takes on a dark, purplish glow. The air hums, electric.

Geralt's good at learning on his feet, though, and fast. One lesson is all he needs to start reading the creature's intentions: the rear of the horse's hooves before it charges, the distance it puts between them as it draws on its magic. He dodges the time-slowing bubble when it spawns again, using the steed's height to slide between its legs. The tip of his sword flips upwards, piercing the horse's belly and splitting it open. Thick black entrails splash.

He wastes no time rising to his feet, spinning around and swinging his sword as he does. The knight's head slices clean off, rolling to a stop by the panther's paws.

(He doesn't feel good. Or unburdened. But he does feel better—that rush which always comes in the aftermath of a fight.) ]

[He already knows no's the answer. Or -- as Nero grins back at it -- fuck off. He's startin' to really get Geralt's full vocabulary over here. Though considering about 25 percent of it is some variation of "fuck," it's not too hard to learn.

Nero retakes his seat like nothing's happened, propping one foot on the other knee as he leans in. One hit's gotta be enough for him, right? Either that, or he's gonna be helping Geralt nurse some lightning burns.

He doesn't worry. It's enough watching Geralt work. It's cool. There's no fucking around. No playing. Just him determining what is the most efficient. It's not Nero's way, but he can acknowledge it looks pretty badass from the outside. It's not the first time he's seen it, but he feels like... yeah, maybe if he watches it enough, he can pick some stuff up.

He makes a gory mess of things and comes out of it hot and stinking of demon blood, but he won. Handily, too.

Shadow bats the head away, tail swinging.

Nero holds out a fist.] Pretty sick, old man.

[ Let it be said that Nero specifically inspires at least ten percent more fucks out of him than the average person. (He means this with fondness, or inasmuch as Geralt feels fondness for Nero. Which, admittedly, is not a small amount. Though he will not say it out loud.)

He doesn't bother flicking the gore stuck to his hair or skin as he makes his way to Nero, leaning down to pat the big cat on the head as he does. Unlike house cats, she seems to tolerate him. Or perhaps Nero simply isn't aware of a cat's dislike of Witchers to imbue her with the same trait.

The outstretched fist receives a look. He pauses. What the fuck is he meant to do with this gesture? (Possibly, he may have witnessed Sam doing it at some point. Vaguely.) After another second, he just. Pats Nero on the shoulder and moves past him to sit down. ]

What was that creature? Another demon of yours?

[He has to give it to Geralt; he's the only guy who would approach the panther and give her a scratch like she was a housecat (especially after she tried to shank Thancred. Sorry, buddy.) She doesn't seem to mind him -- or maybe it's 'cause Nero hardly minds Geralt at all, not coming into his domain or killin' his demons. That's the fun of it.

Still too bad, though. Nero would get a kick out of hunting with him in the Free Cities. Maybe if Solvunn ever stops being so insular, but... it ain't just their problem.]

Hey, you're gonna leave me hangin'? [Or -- you know, it strikes him Geralt's weird as hell and old, maybe he's a bit out of touch. Wouldn't surprise him. (The pat on his shoulder feels good, though.) He catches up by his side, holding his fist out. And then he grabs Geralt's hand, bumping their knuckles together.]

Of mine? I don't make 'em, I just kill 'em. [He takes a sit next to the Witcher, and pauses. Huh. It occurs to him --] I guess I know who made it. Just one more demon who couldn't hold up on the path to world domination, or whatever.

[ Hanging where? Geralt frowns, just in time for Nero to grab his hand and rather sort of. Brush theirs together. Hm.

He won't question it.

A turn of phrase, really—but his expression grows intrigued as Nero clarifies. ] They're created? By who—other demons?

[ Similar to Lucifer? He supposes it shouldn't surprise him there are similarities across realms. The demons on the Continent are much different. Not quite demons; more unknown entities from unknown realms, labeled in mismatched terms. It is still not clear what Voleth Meir truly is beyond being part of the Hunt. But what is the Wild Hunt?

They may never know. The mysteries of the Continent are impossible to uncover from entire spheres away. Truthfully, he's glad to leave all that behind. This world carries its share of troubles, but...he can admit, he feels far less alone facing them here. ]

[Hey, the Witcher lets him do it, and that's good enough for Nero.

He settles back, stretching his legs out in front of him, pulling Red Queen from his back to drive her into the ground. He probably shouldn't have said anything. If there's one thing that raises his hackles high, it's anything having to do with his -- with Vergil. And all the thoughts he has about him that Nero has no idea how to process. How to deal with any of that.

But it's just a fact.] This one was tryin' to be a king. Like most of the big ones try to be, I guess. Called himself Urizen. [Nero shrugs.] Most of them just sort of crawl out of the Underworld. The big bads can make their own henchman. Thus thunderhead over there. [Well, the fallen corpse is already sort of dissolving into demon blood and seeping into the ground - just like home.] I mean, you never really wonder who made your monsters, right? It's enough to know there's no end to them.

[ It doesn't occur to him he's touched a delicate subject until Nero doesn't answer immediately. Geralt studies the boy. There's something Nero isn't saying about this Urizen. He decides now isn't the time to ask, but he tucks the name away. ]

Humans made some of ours. Mages. [ He doesn't wonder, no. He knows. ] Others fell through during the Conjunction from other realms.

[ Perhaps in their world, they aren't deemed monsters. Perhaps they roamed the land freely as the bears and the wolves do here. Beasts who would not be a danger to anyone if they had not collided with a land occupied by too many humans. What defines a monster so easily shifts with the winds.

For a moment, he adds nothing more. Watches the body of the demon steadily dissolve, the stalking feline lick its paws. He had not come here to slay an imaginary monster. Not exactly. ]

Come by the mountains some time. I'd wager the wolf might like your cat.

Seriously? [Mages, huh. People like Wanda -- well, like Wanda, but totally not like Wanda, 'cause he gets the feeling most mages aren't anything like her. (Hopefully.) He doesn't know what a Conjunction is, but if they "fell" from other spheres -- probably crossed some kind of dimension or something. Why not? Underworld's pretty much the same way.

Learning about other people's homes is fucking weird.]

Weird.

[Not sure what else to say about it. Nero doesn't put that much thought into it. Monster's a monster. Maybe it's simpler with demons, but Geralt doesn't strike him as someone who's living with a bunch of moral dilemmas.

Nero perks up, looking at him. Huh. Nero can't help but be surprised by the invitation -- but that's cool. That's cool. He laughs.] Yeah, you think so? Don't get on me if they tear each other up. She's kind of bitchy. [Or maybe all panthers are like that?] You'll see me soon.

[ CLOSED ] here in this garden of bones

nero.

cw: gore :)

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we can wrap up here!