[ CLOSED ] just look across and see

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: September
Where: Cadens, Nocwich, Horizon
What: September catch-all
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon; season 3 spoilers. nsfw marked.


(( starters below. plot with me discontinued. ))

Comments

— ◈ jaskier; ciri.

[gynvael]

[ When too-vivid dreams last struck him, he awoke with a hole in his stomach, bleeding out onto the sand. Dying. It was not the first he felt it, death brushing against his shoulders, yet never taking him. (Only those around him.) But even that, he'd been prepared for. He's usually prepared. He's used to pain. It is an intimate companion.

The searing agony which grips him now is much more. It crushes his lungs in its fist, obliterates his every thought. Is he dreaming? He doesn't know how long it lasts—seconds or an eternity. Both. Blindly, he grabs the nearest solid thing as though he's falling. As though he doesn't realize he's already hit the ground. His palm presses against smooth wooden floors where he expects to feel soft, damp grass. Birds that should not be there trill in the distance.

His first breath is an airless gasp. On instinct, he struggles to find his feet. A Witcher on his back will not survive long. Except his body responds like a newborn calf, limbs tangled over one another, and he can't get anything to fucking work. A frustrated growl tears from his throat.

Fuck. Fuck. ] Fuck.

[ Dimly, he's aware this can't quite be real. That all he did a few hours ago was get into bed. (Jaskier must've awoken from the commotion, he thinks.) Efforts to reorganize his memories into a logical sequence only make his head throb—and if there's someone by his side trying to help him, he doesn't seem to notice. ]

[cointosser]

[It's a blasted miracle, at this point, that he's not gotten used to this. More likely is there no way to get used to it. The dreams are not simply dreams; he dreams often enough, and mostly pleasant enough, to know. He does dream of death, or of killing, or of betrayal, or of loss.

He certainly does not dream of Valdo Marx, may he rest in peace (probably).

But at least this time, he was not tortured. He doesn't awake to still-burning fingertips and the taste of blood in his mouth. What he wakes up to is a sound he had only heard Geralt truly make for the first time some months ago, to the sound of a body hitting the floor (far too intimately familiar now, and it spikes his heart in exactly the same way). Jaskier is out of his bed, the blankets kicked away, by his knees at the Witcher's side, hands hovering, unsure of where to touch him that might not hurt --

But those wounds have healed.

Haven't they?]

Geralt. [He's soft when he first says it, throat stricken with remembered grief (betrayal, the smell of blood and fire, a deep and guttural loss), but when Geralt doesn't respond, Jaskier grips his arms -- the most likely to be unharmed.] Geralt! Wake up!

[gynvael]

[ Blood rushes between his ears. He grabs Jaskier's hand without thinking, probably squeezes too hard, but he can breathe again. The pain subsides to a dull ache.

Shit. He rights himself, and the world spins with him. He is healed. He should be healed. And yet, for a split second, he's afraid he is not—that like Yennefer's magic, the Singularity has left him less than whole. (Yen. Has she also—?

And Jaskier?)

His eyes finally focus on the bard in front of him. Carefully, deliberately, he peels his fingers from Jaskier's wrist. ]

I'm okay. I'm— [ Fuck. His head. He pushes to his feet. (Steady. It doesn't hurt to stand.) With the pain subsided, a fresh realization seizes him. A far greater one. ] Where's Ciri?

[ She's here. She must be; she'd bid him goodnight only hours ago. But he needs to see her at once. ]

— ◈ jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ Dawn is breaking through the sky by the time he settles down once more. He nurses a bottle of vodka on the couch. Coram curls beside him, tiny wings tucked into the leosylph's furry back. Geralt idly scratches its ears. Damn thing. Oblivious to the trials of life, isn't it? Must be nice.

Whereas he cannot escape. This is different from the previous rush of memories. Visions. Whatever they are. Back then, he'd been...angry. Hurt. Afraid. Now he's—

He had found her. Ciri. They are together—all four of them—though his memories place them apart. He knows he'll stop at nothing to ensure that doesn't change. That they stay together, here, where they belong. In this sphere.

When Jaskier emerges, he makes room for the bard. He remembers it: Jaskier by his side for weeks on end. Never wavering. There was a time when he insisted he needed no one, and yet during those months, he'd never needed his friend more.

He is no longer reluctant to admit that. ]

Thirsty? [ He holds out the half-empty bottle. ]

[cointosser]

[Once Ciri finds Geralt -- and not a hard feat, considering she's barely a room away -- Jaskier makes himself scarce. They need the time for each other. If Geralt recalls what he did, then... then the last thing they knew was Ciri in a carriage, bond for Nilfgaard. Finally found by those who were searching for her. A prisoner.

Jaskier scoops up Mog and walks out into the cool desert air. The gryphon makes minimal complaint about being held tightly to Jaskier's chest. Nothing that hasn't happened to him before. A little bit of dried rabbit plies him into putting up with Jaskier's grip, either way.

He thinks of sending Nadine a note, but what would he say? Where does he start? He watches the stars and soaks in these new memories. In some ways, it's worse than ever. And in some ways, more relieving.

He looks down at Mog.] Do you think I should ever see him again? [Truly, the least of his worries. At least they know... Ciri was all right. They found her again.

Should he send something to Yennefer? Are you there, Yennefer? It's me. Jaskier. But she will likely be asleep, fucking someone, or will send him a biting remark in return. Ah. If only Milva were here. Perhaps she would knock him so cleanly in the head he would be unconscious again.

He sighs. Eventually, when the cold is annoying enough and Mog is tired from a walk and from being held, he returns to their home. Jaskier empties Mog onto his nest and takes the free seat beside Geralt. He pauses, taking the bottle but not yet drinking from it.] Is this how we are to deal with these memories again? And every time it happens?

[gynvael]

[ Geralt gives a soft huff. Is it? He doesn't drink to forget. He would need far too much liquor to achieve that, and regardless, it isn't a state he enjoys. But it does dull the edge a little. The bright shards of each memory. The way they slot themselves into his mind between the ones that exist. ]

We've endured before. [ They will again. As unpleasant as the experience is, he cannot say he would prefer otherwise. He remembers Ciri. Finding her, being with her. Teaching her. (Failing her.)

He won't let it happen again.

He sighs, glancing over at Jaskier. Since waking, he'd been preoccupied with Ciri. He's not yet stopped to think about his friend. ]

And you? Are you all right?

[ Jaskier spoke little of what happened at Thanedd while he and Yen were at the ball. In truth, Geralt had not asked during his time with the dryads. His sole focus had been getting back on his feet to search for Ciri. That was all he could think about. He can't help feeling a bit unmoored now that he's abruptly achieved that singular goal. It's strange to recall running for so fucking long, never staying in one place, only to wake up to...this. A home. The closest thing to safety they've had since leaving Kaer Morhen. ]

— ◈ julie.

[gynvael]

[ The night after his (dreams, visions), Geralt goes to see Julie. She's the first person he wants to see next. What he wants to tell her or how, he isn't sure. He only knows he wants to be with her. Someone who understands him, but isn't tied to strange memories he hasn't yet fully taken apart. She's part of his life in this world and this world alone, and he needs that. To ground him, perhaps, or to remind him not of what he once lost but everything he still has.

Or maybe he just wants to see her for the simple reason that he does.

It does not occur to him that Jaskier spoke to Julie mere hours ago. That she already knows what happened. In retrospect, he should've realized. He can smell Jaskier's scent in the house. He knows Jaskier left briefly yesterday. He just assumed the bard came to speak to Nadine.

He lets himself in and knocks quietly on her door before cracking it open. The circles are heavier under his eyes; his hair is loose. He looks as if he hasn't slept, which is...not inaccurate. After he fell out of the damn bed, he'd spent the dwindling twilight hours drinking with Jaskier, then sitting alone on the roof for the rest of the day.

His gaze lingers on her, soft. It feels like he hasn't seen her in months, and he refrains from going in to embrace her, if only so he doesn't startle her. ]

Am I interrupting?

[princessvegas]

[ After Jaskier's visit earlier, Julie had resolved that her primary role in this situation should simply be to make Geralt comfortable. She can't undo what happened in another world, and she can't share the weight of the memories either. What she can do is distract for a bit.

Besides, planning things is her own favorite distraction, and she isn't exactly feeling much at peace herself.

She doesn't know when, exactly, Geralt will choose to visit, but she suspects it will be sooner rather than later, and likely late enough that he will stay the night. Just in case, she does fix an extra serving of dinner, but by the time he shows, she's wrapped it and put it in the icebox for him. When he knocks, she's just placing the last of a dozen little floating balls of light around the room, like candle flames flickering throughout the air. She glances back over her shoulder toward the door, and smiles when it opens. ]

Hey. No, you're not interruptin' anythin'.

[ Beyond just the lights, there is indication that she was somewhat expecting him to show up; she has two wineglasses at the bedside, and she's wearing one of the sheer robes she got in Nocwich. Nothing excessive, but clearly she thought it was a better chance than not that he'd be here.

She reaches out her hand to him. ] C'mon.

[gynvael]

[ His eyes sweep over the soft lights, the wine glasses, the dress he knows she's chosen for him. That she seems prepared is a little surprising; he visits often, but there's no particular occasion tonight that'd indicate he'd be stopping by. Has he caught her before she could ask to see him? (That's happened more than once.) ]

You were expecting me. [ There's a touch of a question, though Geralt leaves it at that. He takes her hand and closes the distance between them. She smells like vanilla and sugar. It fills the room, his head, and he lets it. ] I wanted to talk to you, but...

[ It can wait. He doesn't want to burden her when she has other things in mind. They've been through enough, anyhow, these past few weeks. Months, really. Years and months for him, compressed and jumbled and never fitting right. He tells himself he would not trade these scattered memories for anything when they are all he has of Ciri, and that holds true. He just wishes there was another way, too.

Leaning down, he tips her chin and sweeps her hair behind her shoulder. A quiet ache stirs between his ribs. Maybe she can sense it, too, in how he kisses her—not unlike when he's returned from a long trip; when she came to him in the infirmary after they were rescued. As though it's been longer than just a few short days since he last saw her. ]

— ◈ istredd.

[gynvael]

[ The meeting with Istredd was set before any memories overtook him. His head now swims with a hundred questions, but there remain concerns on this sphere that need resolving. He's asked for a piece of the myriapod. He has three days to obtain it before Nocwich shuts its doors for the month.

So that's what he does. Life goes on. He can sort his shit out later.

Though, admittedly—what of Istredd? These memory surges are unpredictable. And with Yennefer, she'd—

He supposes they'll find out. It's a little strange to possess new experiences with a man he previously recalled meeting only once. Especially not knowing if Istredd has gone through the same. Nor knowing Istredd's fate following the Aretuza's collapse, either. They are not friends, but that doesn't mean he ever wished for Istredd to end up on a funeral pyre.

The woods in Nocwich are dark and full of beasts. An ideal place to exchange a severed limb or two. He waits, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. ]

[magicalarchaeologist]

[ Lucifer, Yennefer, and Istredd went through quite a time killing that particular beast, since the arcana ended up fucking with Lucifer. Despite focusing entirely on keeping him sane, Istredd was still able to scoop up the head and stuff it into the bag of holding, larger on the inside, knowing it was about to be disgusting. He didn't have time to put spells on it yet that would preserve the head, but once Lucifer was back home and doing better, he did.

Unfortunately, the most recent experiences weren't enough. This place had to fuck with him an extra step by flooding his mind with memories unexpectedly. Istredd's heard people speak of it before, but nothing could have prepared him for the experience. It doesn't help that they are traumatizing ones too. No matter how far he put distance between himself and the Brotherhood, it was still the only home and family he knew.

Yennefer filled in what he missed, being snatched out of the situation so quickly. It settled in him with a mixture of sadness and numbness. Much like Geralt, his appearance here is of the same 'life goes on, sort out shit individually' mentality. Lucifer tried his best to help, but some things take time.

But he swore to meet Geralt with the preserved head and he meant it. If this entire madness had one up side, let it be this. Istredd has gotten comfortable with the woods there since Lucifer enjoys hunting. He knows to look out for Geralt and the man is hard to miss when he is intentionally waiting for someone.

For the first time days, a small smile curls at his lips, and he puts his hand into the bag. No one thought to look into it and Thorne hadn't found out where the head went to. Istredd tosses it at Geralt's shoes with the same casual motion the man did the same to him all that time ago. At least this is a preserved version, so it won't drip on him. ]

[gynvael]

[ Istredd's arrival pricks his ears before the man wordlessly launches the severed head in his direction. Geralt catches it on instinct—fingers curled around one sticky horn.

He huffs—a vague noise that passes for amusement. Someone's pleased with himself. A head does technically suffice. ]

I trust it gave you no trouble.

[ He sets the head on a stump and draws the dagger in his boot. It's preserved well enough. Still stinks of blood and entrails. And magic. The edge of the blade digs into the flesh below a curved horn. It cracks loose, same as the leshy had years ago, spilling a crumbling black dust.

As he suspected. He just isn't sure what it means in the greater scheme of things. Had it arrived incidentally? The first monster drawn to Ciri once the fissures split open? Because of something...something what? Something disturbed in Solvunn? He'll have to tell Ciri.

Though in a way, the monoliths suddenly feel a distant problem. He knows it isn't. Just. Time is fucking with him.

He sighs. ] I assume you don't mean to mount this on your wall.

[ He can take it back with him. Istredd still lives in the castle—and he is not interested in Thorne retrieving the head as a specimen from the mage. Nor questioning why Istredd has kept it. ]

— ◈ sam.

[gynvael]

[ A week or two passes before Geralt makes the decision to test himself. He has a good sense of what he's capable of on the ground. Wielding a sword. Navigating the terrain is as important as his ability to fight, though, and he means to regain what strength he lost while flat on his back. If he's to return to the Path, if he's to ensure he can protect his people, then he has to be better. And he can only get there through training.

He isn't reckless enough to go alone. On the chance anything happens, he'll need someone with him. So it's Sam he goes to—not long after their discussion in Istredd's domain.

The cliff is the same one he's scaled dozens of times. It goes...all right. He manages. He reaches the top without faltering, but he can feel the growing ache in his leg when he hauls himself onto the ledge. It isn't like that before, and he hates the tight curl in his stomach that tells him it may never get better than this.

He stretches his leg out. The sky begins to lighten with the rising sun. He wears a different sort of quiet than usual: troubled rather than contemplative.

Still, an edge of a tease graces his tone when he turns to Sam. ] You almost kept up.

[falcony]

[ when geralt comes to sam and proposes the trip, part of him thinks he knows what this is about. he'd started putting pieces together before now - they've of course seen each other over the week or two, at least once or twice, and then there was the meeting itself. little changes that on their own wouldn't mean much but when piled together start to draw a picture.

and then there was the comment, the plan. sam had just been thinking about pulling geralt aside at some point, asking if he wanted a drink to catch up, so the idea of going out for a climb was actually a pleasant change of pace. or, if he's being honest, a pleasant challenge. for him, and in some ways that maybe even geralt wouldn't admit to, for him as well.

sam's still the only one who seems to be breathing heavily as they crest the top of the cliff, geralt already settled and stretching while sam sort of just collapses onto his back and lets himself catch his breath. ] Glad you noticed. [ he gets between breaths, before finally pushing himself to sit up and reaching for his waterskin. ] Seemed to give you a run for your money this time, too.

[ very casual, very low-stakes way of perhaps pointing out that he may or may not have noticed a bit of favoring happening there when it came to geralt's climbing. ]

[gynvael]

[ After two, nearly three, summers together, Geralt expects nothing less than Sam seeing through him. Sam's instincts have been sharp from the moment they met, and the better they know each other, the quicker Sam seems to catch on each time something isn't quite right with Geralt. It is not a fact he minds, but it does mean the gentle prodding comes without surprise.

A part of him doesn't feel as though much has changed. Ciri remains his priority. Calling that meeting is a notion that's circled his thoughts for weeks if not months. The rush of memories simply pushed him to act where he might've otherwise given it more time. Another part of him knows everything is different. That what he's after, what he should be doing, has grown sharp around the edges. Clearer.

There is one aspect he's not allowed himself to fully unravel, though. Something much more personal. Normally, he would swallow it down and push on, and he has. He did the same after his return from the acolytes' hands, throwing his focus onto Ciri instead. It's easier to think about her, to worry about her, than dwell on his troubles. In their world, this was warranted. She was a target for endless threats. Younger. That's less so in Abraxas. His worries are real, but no danger pursues her. Not right now. It's harder to pretend he isn't...that his continued diverted attention on everyone but himself hasn't become a crutch.

He's already holding out Sam's waterskin when Sam turns to reach for it. His expression suggests he knows he's deflecting. Sam will know it, too. ] Are you accusing me of getting old?

— ◈ clive.

[gynvael]

[ The hot springs in Nocwich have always held their allure. That's especially true now as the weather this far north turns damp, a chill in the air. The cold sinks deeper than it once did, and Geralt tries not to dwell on the reasons behind that.

In any case, he has an appointment with Istredd and a few hours to waste until then.

He picks a quiet corner near some naturally layered stones. A small sandpiper lingers around him for a few minutes. It lands on his head, steals a pastry out of his hand, splashes in a shallow puddle. At one point, Geralt grabs the bird out of the air, only releasing it when it squawks indignantly. And yet, he seems surprisingly tolerant of what should be a pest of an animal.

Eventually, Jaskier flaps away, and Geralt returns to what he hopes to be some solitude. No such luck. The springs are public; he can't begrudge anyone from joining him. He can grumble internally about it, though, even as he cracks open an eye to peer upon his newest companion.

Hm. An unfamiliar face. Curious. Geralt doesn't give a greeting, but he isn't bothering to be discreet about eyeing the man. The moonlight catches the yellow glow of his gaze as he does. ]

[flagrates]

[ It's the quietest part of the springs that he can find, and Clive is in want of solitude — the air grows chill, and his mind wanders ever further the longer he stays in this place, worried about what will happen if he remains here. Worried about what will happen if he doesn't.

It's the sight of the sandpiper that catches his attention at first, and Clive does hesitate before sliding into the spring &mdsah; clearly this man also had the same idea as he, but every other pool is near filled and he isn't in the mood to sit shoulder to shoulder with someone else. This will have to do if he wants to take a moment to relax his mind and body. He slides in just as the sandpiper flits away, heeding of the gaze on him but not looking at the other man at first. He's too busy watching the bird, and it's not until his body is fully submerged that Clive finally looks over at his new companion, giving an apologetic smile. ]

Sorry. This was the quietest spot here.

[gynvael]

[ Geralt, too, ends up following the man's gaze to the bird. He can't tell if his companion simply finds the bird an odd sight or if he recognizes the form. Hard to say. Jaskier isn't secretive about it, but he hasn't seen this man around the Free Cities. Which means he must reside elsewhere.

A warrior's form, to be sure. Or a soldier.

He settles back against the ledge. Wish he'd brought a drink. Jaskier has already made off with his damn food. ]

Makes two of us, [ is the wry response. ] I can pretend you aren't here, if you prefer.

[ It's partly a joke, but he could. He's good at that. ]

— ◈ yennefer.

[gynvael]

[vixening]

[ geralt will probably feel yennefer the moment she steps down the pathway to kaer morhen, though even if he had not, his wolf certainly has. yennefer hadn't spent much time in geralt's horizon during these last few months, but she'd been enough to recognize the change - how his wolf had been prior, and how it had refused to come near after. a part of her knows that she could just as easily hand her letter to him, that it would save her the walk, but she can't help the small part of her that yearns for the familiar.

and so, even as the wolf approaches her this time. even as it closes the distance as she stands there and waits, just to make sure, and even as it tilts its head into her palm as she reaches down to slide her fingers through his fur. she doesn't bother hiding the fond, easy smile that comes to her as he lets her pet him. ]

I know I've been gone a long time. [ it is said softly, a kind of apology in its own right. the wolf continues to watch her, eyes not quite bright but also much less guarded than she'd see them before, and yennefer knows that while there is no forgiveness there, exactly, there is a kind of acceptance. in that, and in the way he follows her down the path when she finally pulls away and continues.

he follows her all the way to the front door of kaer morhen, where yennefer leaves a piece or parchment - a page of a book on floriculture, part of the section on white lilies. yennefer, with very little ceremony, pulls free a dagger from her belt and nails the page to his front door, the printed text on the back and the side showing in her own handwriting. when she takes a step back once it is complete, as if checking her handiwork, before she glances down to the wolf who seems to also be inspecting it. once another couple of moments pass, he turns those same gold eyes back to yennefer, who smiles. ]

Make sure he sees this, please, Gwiazda. [ the wolf nods his head, once, and she smiles. ] Thank you.

[ when geralt does go to find the letter, yennefer will already be gone. but the wolf will remain, sitting right outside the door, as if waiting for him to come retrieve it. it is a letter, one that yennefer hopes is as familiar to him as it was to her writing it. ]

Dear Friend,

I do not yet know if you have undergone the same sleepless night as myself and a couple of our companions. And, even if you have, I do not yet know what it is that you've remembered - it is just as likely that you may have years on me yet again as it is that you have not dreamt of any at all.

Still, I find that it will be worth the risk, acknowledging this ghost that haunts us. The past I cannot change.

I understand it is possible that your silence remains even here, but in the chance it does not, I will be in my Horizon. You may recognize the place.

Your Friend,

Yennefer.

[gynvael]

[ It takes him a day or two to approach Yennefer. His head is still spinning. A part of him wonders what he may do if she continues to not remember. He would tell her, then—that is a decision he made for himself after their encounter in Nocwich—but where would it leave them afterwards? Where would they go from there when it changes nothing about her memories, her experiences? I didn't know if I wanted to forgive her, he'd confessed, and Dean had said, But you do. He can no longer convince himself that isn't true.

The wolf outside Kaer Morhen stirs. He does not know if it is her or another visitor, but something in him feels it. Something he cannot put to words.

He enters that night. The stars twinkle above. His wolf stands before the door, waiting, quiet and calm. The parchment pinned to the door is a sight he's well-acquainted with. A sign. He huffs to himself. So she does remember at long last. She must, to leave him a letter like this. He thinks of the last time they spoke. The overwhelming grief that swallowed them whole. Some part of him still feels as if he's mourning, though he knows he hasn't a reason to here. Ciri is safe. Yennefer is safe. The threats of the Continent are a distant roar.

But there are new threats. And the losses they've suffered have not been not undone.

He folds the letter and gives it to the wolf to keep. The one and only time he visited Yennefer's Horizon was after the last surge of memories. The air had tasted like ash. Has she kept it? The charm and the jasper? He imagines so. No, he knows she has. She would have. It would not be like her to discard it, no matter the gulf between them.

Ash and smoke still fill the air, but the burnt cabin and its blackened crib are no longer present. In its place looms a familiar forest. An isolated dirt road leads through the dense thicket towards the heart of the isle.

She's there. He smells her perfume before he glimpses her silhouette against the moon. There's a pause, an involuntary stutter. Not hesitation, not that. He's just. Doesn't know what to expect. (Doesn't know what she expects in return.)

Then he takes a step forward, and another, until he is standing before her. He reaches out—as he had so many times in the past, before invariably withdrawing—but now he touches her, fingers curled tentatively around her arm. ]

— ◈ john grey.

[gynvael]

[ Occasionally, Geralt rides in the Horizon to clear his head. Sometimes he takes his motorbike. Today, he takes Roach, wanting the familiar gait of his horse. The circumference of the Horizon isn't large, but it suffices. Where he goes, a dirt trail follows. The sound of birds twitters around him, fading when he moves on.

He examines the rising domains as he goes. He's been here a long time; he's seen people's spaces change, grow, and become swallowed by others. Disappear entirely. A few spots are blank. Others have become a near-permanent fixture. (Kaer Morhen is one.)

For a moment, he considers stopping by Jaskier's domain. Not even to see the bard; he knows Jaskier is occupied in the physical world with his flower shop. No. He just wants to sit at a piece of the Continent. One that is no longer there. Perhaps check in on Moglad. But when a cobblestone road unfurls before him, he realizes this spot is new. A building of brick sits nearby.

Hm.

He pauses, studying it—which is about the time he hears the clip of another horse behind him. Geralt glances over his shoulder, head cocked as the other rider approaches. ]

[iustise]

[John takes much the same approach to riding as Geralt seems to. It helps to clear his head, having something to focus on besides himself. Where going for a walk might leave his thoughts to wander, Karolus (a large, white stallion given to him by the Hanoverian army) is not a forgiving mount. If he should lose his concentration he knows the creature is liable to take off with him. They have been through a lot together, the horse and he, and riding keeps him grounded.

Lord John has lived through war times -- has been pulled from yet another to find himself here, in this strange and faraway place. The creatures they had faced that had come through the rifts were a far cry from the cannon fire and rifle shot John was used to going up against. That did not mean there was not something buried deep inside of him that had not relished the excitement and danger of the fight and... Finding a use for himself, in this place.

It has given him a lot to think about, and so he finds himself at the Beefsteak, riding around the stretch of Hyde Park that the club abutted (at least that it seems to in this, his version of the place.) Which is when he spots another rider. The first he has ever seen, in this version of London at least.

John pulls Karolus to slow, raising a hand in greeting as the other man turns.]

Hello! Forgive me, I have not yet seen many visitors here, you surprised me. Welcome to London. Well, a small corner thereof.

— ◈ himeka; alucard.

[gynvael]

[ Strictly speaking, Geralt was here to collect a head. (Not a human one.) While he's here, though, Himeka has promised to deliver him a taste of her real cooking. Not that he doesn't enjoy her Horizon meals, but it's come up between them that he seldom eats anything she made in the physical world. Nocwich is the sole place where that can happen.

Besides, he wants to be sure she's all right after the chaos only days ago. Especially given the vision that struck each of them. Solvunn's involvement is never a good sign.

So that's where they are: in Nocwich by the rocky shore. The winds have a bite of autumn to them. He ignores the faint ache in his leg, peering at the spread Himeka has placed before them. Is he surprised she's gone above and beyond? Not really, but he has to wonder how she fit everything through the damn portal. He's about to ask what's under the cloth-covered basket (lamb? Smells like it) when a lanky shadow falls over them.

Oh. Speaking of a fondness for cooked meals. Attracted by the aroma of food or seeking solitude away from the busy market? Could be both.

Geralt's greeting to Alucard is a simple tip of his head. He'll let Himeka offer sufficient exuberance. ]

[cryptsleeper]

[One does not invite Alucard to something and make an off handed mention of food without accidentally compelling the dhampir to contribute. Geralt had passed word along that this was happening and something about Himeka bringing food along so...

...he's not the star of the show here, but he's brought along apple stuffed hand pies that have been gently fried and dusted with cinnamon, along with a small cask of spiced ale that he doesn't actively hate. (He'll be a wine person forever, but he's making an effort.)

His eyes alight on all that Himeka has brought along though, impressed.]

How long did it take to make all of that?