abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] just look across and see

[ Let's hope not. Thorne seems less eager to throw people down there from what he's heard, though he suspects it's less a question of integrity and more one of image.

Clive would likely have received a noncommittal noise, followed by silence for the rest of their soaking time—had he not given his name. Geralt raises an eyebrow. Curious. ]

Rosfield? [ How many Clive's could there be? Small world, he'd say, but it isn't as if there are many places for the Summoned to venture. Border restrictions have been a damn pain. ] I identified your... [ He pauses. ] Art.

[ A loose definition of art. Very loose. But at least it was less confusing than the one Himeka once gave him. ]

[ Clive thinks maybe he should be offended by that pause, but it's overcome by the sheer coincidence of running into someone here that had seen it. Though, he supposes, a lot of people had. Just very few had said anything directly to him about it. Still, it's always nice to meet a... friend? Art enthusiast? ]

The same. You're Geralt?

Mm-hm.

[ That's him. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Butcher, Art Enthusiast. He needn't ask if Clive managed to kill it, because he knows the man did not. Istredd is the one bringing him a piece of it, not Clive.

Which is neither here nor there. He swirls his fingers idly over the water's surface. Steam drifts gently through the air. He remains curious if Clive had a second encounter. ]

You saw it again after we spoke?

I did, yes.

[ And he looks, frankly, unhappy about it. ]

And it didn't go well.

[ He frowns as he looks down at his hands in the water, splashing his fingers a little. He's quiet, for a moment, reflecting on what really went wrong. ]

It has way too many hands, for starters. And it tossed me like a ragdoll before escaping into one of those portals. I've still got the bruises to remember it by.

[ The faint quirk of his lips is not meant to make fun. He sympathizes; the fucking thing also threw him. Maybe he just appreciates meeting someone who knows what it's like. Intimately. The hands were not his favourite.

He wants to guess that the man is no stranger to odd beasts. The scar on his face is curious. What might've left that behind? ]

We have our share of monsters back home, but that one was...unique.

[ One of a kind, where its appearance on other spheres is concerned. From the stellacite dust left behind, that continues to hold true. ]

We've nothing like it in my home, true, though we've our fair share of things not unlike it.

[ A pause. ]

One showed up here. The morbol.

[ He shudders minutely. ]

And if I never see one again it'll be too soon.

[ That's where the morbol came from? His sphere? Geralt makes a soft noise. ] Ran into it twice.

[ Ugly fucker. He may be irritated by losing track of it twice—not because it ran or he failed to kill it, but because those fissures kept sucking it away.

If Clive is hoping it's dead and done for, he'll be sorely disappointed. ]

Then be glad you're in Thorne. It lives some miles out in the desert.

[ Leave it to the humans to want to study the thing. He'll give it another few weeks before some hapless townsfolk are chucked down its gullet in the name of science. ]

[ He looks up at Geralt sharply, horrified, really. ]

They kept it alive!? Did they not see what destruction it can leave in it's wake?

[ He's thinking of Jaskier's tree, of the rot it left behind it, how back home the things had killed countless people and poisoned waters. And here he is, stuck in Thorne except for three nights a month. ]

Had I the freedom, I'd go put it out of our misery.

Mm. Protected from poachers. [ He lifts a hand. What can you do. ] Not much to destroy in the wasteland, at least.

[ Not even any water to poison except the cavern muck. The only thing out in that endless dust are brigands, more monsters, and unlucky travellers who lost their way. And hunters like himself.

Soon to be curious strays who want to see the beast, no doubt. Truthfully, he feels a bit sorry for it. As far as he can tell, they've trapped it to poke and study it. ]

Humans like to play with nature.

[ You can not cage a morbol, that's what you can do. Clive sighs, reaching up to run a wet hand through his hair, clearly unimpressed. Not, of course, with Geralt — he clearly knows what he's talking about, and he's managed to kill a myriapod, something Clive himself couldn't even do. He's got no reason not to respect a person like that. ]

They do. To their own detriment.

[ He muses, dropping his hand back into the water with a plop, leveling Geralt with a wry grin. ]

What do you suppose it would take to free it?

[ Not that he wants to. But it's more dangerous to keep it locked up. ]

At this juncture? [ He hums. He's ridden out to see it for himself; other than a trail of slime and a small decline in the sandcat population, he's found no signs of it feasting on humans. ] A handful of curious idiots.

[ Geralt will not say he wants to see people eaten because there are a number who deserve to be devoured alive whose monster he's killed anyhow (and taken their money for it). But he won't weep for anybody who pays the price for poking a sleeping bear. Or a disgruntled morbol, as it were.

If anything happens, it'll be on the ones who go looking where they shouldn't. ]

Don't worry. [ Amusement colours his tone. ] Should his time come, I'll send him your way for you.

Do me a favor and set it loose in the castle first.

[ The last thing Clive wants is for innocent people to get hurt, but the threat of a poisonous plant running amok in the castle and possibly eating the queen is too good of a thought to not think it. And at least here he can say it aloud. No risk of someone he cares about being punished for it.

And then another thought strikes him. ]

Tell me, what happened? With the Queen and the Free Cities?

[ A snort greets that remark. Tempting. Though setting it on Marlo is a thought of its own. (There are multiple people he would not decline to see get eaten.)

On that topic. He shifts, resting an arm on the pool's rocky ledge. ]

Bad blood. When Ellya's pet paramour was murdered, she rained fire on the city. They burned Thorne's grain fields in return. Common folk paid the price.

[ So. Nothing new. Much of the destruction struck civilians; Libertas is not exactly known for being the army's stronghold—it's filled with artists, not soldiers—and that decision was nothing except deliberate. If not for the encroaching winter, they'd likely be in the midst of a raging conflict. Frankly, he's surprised they've avoided one for this long. He supposes the constant disturbances from the Singularity and Josselyn Creed's indiscriminate targeting of all three nations make for a compelling diversion from war. ]

[ Nothing new indeed. The Queen is starting to remind him more and more of someone he'd rather forget, and he shifts uncomfortably at the thought. She, too, would have razed a city at the slightest offense. He doesn't bother to hide the grimace that crosses his features at the thought of his mother. ]

So the same old story, then. Someone in power is wronged and it's innocent people who pay for it. Are they recovering? The city and the grain fields?

[ He might try to look into the fields, at least. See if there's something he can do. ]

I'd presume. It was two winters ago.

[ Should he have kept a closer eye? Perhaps, but Geralt is a man who chooses not to concern himself with matters he cannot help. Jaskier and Yennefer had been wounded. Cadens' sister city was reduced to ash. So that was where his attention went—digging through the rubble for bodies. He imagines the Summoned in Thorne played their part across the continent.

Pieces of Libertas will never be the same, but that's nothing new, either. He grew up with the scars burnt into the walls of Kaer Morhen, and he sees the same now walking through the streets. It's a subject that hits too close to home.

A second passes before Geralt begins to rise, seemingly finished with both bath and conversation. Abrupt, maybe, to someone he's newly met, but it isn't anything to do with Clive. Just how he is. ]

Try to keep your head attached over there.

[ Clive lifts a hand in a wave, nodding. ]

I'll look into it.

[ Is he talking about the grain fields? Or keeping his head attached? Who's to say? ]

It was good to meet you face to face, Geralt.

[ CLOSED ] just look across and see

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject