abraxaslogs | (OPEN) I left my body with the old landlady

[ He sets himself up with a lodging. The first night's place is temporary, just somewhere to lay his head while he figures out what's next, but before too long he's taken up residence close enough to the people who are most likely to need to find him so as to be within sprinting distance but not so close as to be falling over them every time he leaves the building. He debates not leaving his real name with the woman who runs the place, but it's too early to be invisible. There are few enough people who know it, and the people who do may have interesting things to say, so he makes himself easy to find and passes his address along to any of their own number who might need it.

By the fourth day in town, his modest room— a decent space with a bed shoved in one corner, a desk against the opposite wall, wardrobe and wash basin on a table beside it tucked away in a nook, a cabinet and a slightly unkempt-looking armchair the other other pieces of furniture —is already scattered with stacks of books and trinkets from around the city. He's not in a lot of the time and his landlady will be quick to tell anyone as much, but if he is home she'll send them up to the third floor where a knock on the door she's described will earn a brief spell of silence, and then: ]

Who is it?

[ In spite of the wooden door, his voice sounds close, like he's standing right by his visitor's side in the entirely empty hallway. Anyone who opens the door will find him poring over one of the five or so open books spread across his desk. ]

[ Shopping isn't Cadens' claim to fame, but there's still plenty to be found in a city this large housing so many of the region's wealthy academics, military and political officials - and just so many people in general. Aquila keeps the trends fresh and Cadens keeps itself well stocked in what they're churning out. Given, then, that Cadens is where he landed, Cadens is where he starts.

He tries jewellery stores first, but they're the kind of places with high price tags and products not fit for purpose: metal too hard, or too soft, or too without room to grow. Pieces that look the part but won't ever act it. The kinds of things that are already whole and have no capacity for being elaborated upon, creatively or otherwise. So he takes to the streets, trying his luck at the stalls that pop up in less affluent parts of the city.

The attention he pays as the moves damaged fingers over trays of brass and silver, fishing through peoples' old possessions and new creations, is absolute. Lingering here and there, brow dipping with concentration as he holds his fingertip to aging metal. Occasionally somebody will remind him it's fine to try things on, to which he'll offer a curt "no, thank you" and proceed to stand there, silently touching things for a further handful of minutes before moving on.

He'll be ring shopping for the better part of a day, so feel free to ask him what the fuck or stop by to join in. ]

Coraline had been planning to try and steal a few rings here to sell at other stall, do a kind of rotating stock thing, but the fact she's seen the magician at three of the ones she'd been planning on hitting when she was going to hit them has thrown off her groove sufficiently that when she sees him a fourth time she just gives up and approaches him on silent feet while he's examining a tray full of rings.

"I've seen you talk to Jon a bunch," she says, suddenly by his side looking up at him with sharp hazel eyes. "But I never got your name."

Edited 2021-09-15 10:33 (UTC)

The interruption is abrupt and unapologetic and entirely deserving of an equally blunt dismissal, except for the fact that when he turns his head to take a look at her, she seems about as annoyed to be speaking to him as he should be to have been interrupted. The slightest ghost of a smirk - fair exchange - and then he turns his attention back to the ring he's inspecting as he answers.

"Didn't you? That's strange."

Or is it... Strange? If any and everyone else can make a joke out of his name at his expense, it's his right to torment others with it when they intrude on his day without so much as a hello.

There's a moment of surprise from Coraline, a slight scoff at his blunt rejection of her glancing interaction; but despite it, she gives a little grin. Alright, nerd.

Her eyes flick to the older man running the stall, and isn't surprised to see his eyes locked on her. So she sneers right back, though her voice is aimed pointedly at Jon's Friend.

"This stuff's all garbage, you know. Most of these are glass, there's way better stuff like two blocks over."

"Thanks for the free advice, but I'm not interested in the stones."

It doesn't escape him that the stallholder isn't letting Coraline out of his sight. Doesn't really surprise him, either. He's not been completely oblivious all day, has caught her out of the corner of his eye a handful of times by now. She's fierce, if what he's seen of her interactions with and adjacent to Sims so far are much to go by, so if she's lurking around jewellery stalls and unlikely to have the somewhat infinite resources he has...

Not a hugely difficult equation. Stephen glances up at the seller, fixes him with the flat smile of a customer not planning on buying any wares, then disengages from his inspection of the rings and turns to Coraline.

"Come on then, since you've got the inside scoop."

Not that it's any of his business but he doesn't like the idea of her out here on her own under the watchful eyes of a varied selection of pissed off merchants. So, two birds with one stone. He's not exactly having any luck here.

She shoots the vendor a smug little look that wrinkles her nose and makes the man look like he wants to strangle her, but she'll quickly bounce around to her new companion's other side, casually fluffing her hair with both hands to prove how totally not stealing something she is.

Though when the crowd thickens between them and the stall, as they walk away, she pulls a long ringlet out to twirl up and use to tie up the rest of her hair - and inexpertly loops it around a brass hair stick to finish the knot and pin it up. One that had very much been on the table when they left.

The smug air to her has only increased, but she's clever enough to stay looking casual but alert, eyeing off the stalls around them with a practised eye. "So, what are you looking for? There's like six vendors using real stones, but one of them's only showing the real ones so he can swap them for glass and gold foil when he makes a sale."

[ Cadens is huge, busy, bustling. There's hardly anywhere you can go that won't wander you straight out of one crush of people and into another, travelling from crowd to gaggle to gathering. Finding a quiet corner of total privacy in the open air is easier said than done, but they exist, fleetingly: an alleyway out the back of an alehouse it's too early for anybody to be picking a drunken fight in; a little copse of trees in one of the parks on a shady day; in the shadow of a museum as the night draws in.

Fleetingly, remember. Because these places, once found, have value to more than just peace-seekers or the questionably motivated. Whether you're just passing by, looking on from afar, seeking somewhere to breathe or have already staked a claim on the spot, the air is tearing itself open with an electric hiss and a barrage of fiery sparks that rip a circle out of space and leave behind— somewhere else.

From whence steps a man, one Stephen Strange if you've already met or a forty-something white guy with some really choice facial hair if you haven't, and maybe he's carrying books or maybe he's frowning like he's lost something or maybe he's licking the fingers of one hand like he's just finished with lunch.

Maybe he notices you: ] Oh, hello. Sorry, is this seat taken?

[ Or maybe he doesn't, wrapped up in his own business, the books or his surprise at where he's ended up or the food still on his fingers or any number of other things, letting the portal zip closed behind him. A flurry of pinwheel embers dying out and a few more moments of his blissful ignorance for you to do with what you will. ]

[ The city's familiar enough by now Geralt's no longer consciously mapping it out. He's still exploring, though—trying to see what shops and merchants are out there, ones worth knowing. If he's going to be here awhile—and something tells him he is, despite how much he doesn't like that thought—then he might as well get acquainted. Magic doesn't fill the air here as much as it did in Thorne. In that sense, it sets Geralt more at ease. He hasn't got any real dislike of magic, but he also isn't used to it being everywhere, around every corner, wielded by everyone he meets. This is closer to home: a mage here or there, the sight of magic not unusual but not expected, either.

So when there's a hiss of magic to his left, Geralt pays no mind at first. Just steps to the side to make room for whoever's dropped in. Not until he realizes the figure out of the corner of his eye, the scent, is familiar does he look over.

His eyebrows go up a hint. Hm. Didn't think he'd see the man appear out of nowhere. He's had it in the back of his mind to find him again, though some part of Geralt had also been avoiding it. The girl was—it isn't a topic he wants to bring up a second time. But since the man is here, now, Geralt stops. Turns. ]

You made it out of your tower.

[ Oh. Look who it is.

The last snatch of sparks are swallowed up into nothing as he turns to meet the owner of a familiar voice, knowing who he'll find before he does. There's not a lot of mistaking him: the accent may not be unique to the man he finds standing there, but there's a certain level of gruff that can't be as easily replicated. ]

For better or for worse.

[ Worse seeming like a strong contender all things considered.

The polite thing to do now would be to not immediately ask the most sensitive question that comes to mind. Unfortunately, it's also the only question that comes to mind, and it's out before he can do much reconsidering. ]

Did you make it out of your search?

[ He has the good grace to say it lightly, conversationally, no real weight of significance placed on it. ]

Edited (htmL) 2021-09-17 21:44 (UTC)

[ It is, fortunately, not within Geralt's expectations that anyone has any kind of good grace around him, so that's already a bonus. The question comes both unwelcome and unsurprising, and the look on his face suggests as much. ]

More or less. [ There's a pause that indicates he means to say something else, something he decides to put aside at the last minute. It's nothing. Just a sense that maybe he should thank the man, maybe he owes him for helping when there was no reason to—but at the same time, that's been addressed back then already. Leaving it alone is simpler.

Instead, he steps forward; if his companion starts walking, he'll fall in beside him as they navigate the crowded street. ] I see you're still just something out here. Or did you learn to portal recently?

[ He's betting on the former. In his mind, portals are not easy spells to grasp. And not often used as a casual method of transportation. ]

Edited 2021-09-17 22:57 (UTC)

[ It's over with a three word answer, as quick and easy as the small talk nobody enjoys at the beginning of a reunion with a rarely seen colleague, and that's about the best he could've hoped for. Stephen makes a bid for the street and the man falls into step - interesting, could've gone either way - and the question he asks earns a light, earnest scoff of amusement. ]

No. Still something. Sorcerer, to be exact, so you weren't far off.

[ And on the note of what they still may or may not be... ]

Still tall, white and ready to fight. [ The guy looks about as prepared for a trek across unknown landscapes in search of who knows what as he had when they'd last been gearing up to do just that, so there's the or less ] Nice to see we're both consistent.

[ Geralt glances sidelong at the sorcerer. ] No difference to us.

[ Mage, sorcerer, wizard. They all share an affinity for magic, which is what it amounts to. It's curious. Does the magic of this world feel different? Geralt simply can't tell. It doesn't flow through him the same as it does Jaskier. He's tried. Didn't expect anything, either, and he was right. He can access his Signs. That's about it.

He gives a quiet huff. Not far off, either, that assessment. ] Just settling. I didn't expect to walk out the door.

[ Part of him is glad to sidestep a fight; the other part of him can't trust two mysterious figures showing up to open some portals and then fuck off, never to be seen again. He still wants to know who in the hell they are. Why they cared to get involved. ]

No. You and the rest of us.

[ He'd pressed the Prime Minister on it. Did she know they were coming? The answer seemed to be a mostly no and he'd taken that to mean she hadn't had a part in it. The strangers had acted alone, on their own behalf - or, if on the behalf of anyone else, at least on their own whims. But the magic they'd used. Freezing people in a moment like that, everyone but them. That took power, precision.

It's a sobering thought that leads through to another. ]

We were only the first round of lab rats. There are plenty more where we came from, and the cat's already out of the bag. [ Will there be retribution eventually? Sure. But they haven't been pursued yet, so he doubts that it'll come any time soon. There's more to be lost in following them than in leaving them be when their supply chain hasn't been hit. ] At least you won't need to settle in a hurry.

Edited (words? words.) 2021-09-20 22:45 (UTC)

You think they'll continue the summonings.

[ It's a thought he's been wavering between himself. The man sounds certain, which he can't tell is because of something he knows Geralt does not or if he's just drawn a different conclusion. Relena's insinuated Ambrose was left in the dark regarding the experiment, but it's true given its failure, the queen might want to keep him around to summon more and try again.

It's also hard to say how eager Thorne will be to give new prisoners a connection to the Singularity, seeing as not all of those in the Horizon are under Thorne's control any longer.

Speaking of. He eyes the mage. ] Are you in close contact with any of those once imprisoned?

[ With his freedom of movement back in play and all of the Free Cities at his fingertips, Stephen's modest room is starting to struggle with the rapid increase of stuff he's gathering. Anyone who visits him as time goes on will find a different space each time, surfaces covered in various bits of magical paraphernalia from the markets in Aquila and floor space starting to become a gathering ground for books and papers.

They'll find the man slightly changed, too. Intrude on him and there's about a fifty percent chance his landlady will warn you away - "I wouldn't bother him today if I were you," for those she hasn't met before, maybe even a chagrined "I wouldn't bother with him today" for those she's more familiar with. Anyone who proceeds up the stairs on a day when a warning has been issued can expect a cold reception at best. ]

a) [ Knock on the door and from inside there will come a sharp: ] What.

b) [ Try to open the door and the handle turns but nothing happens, old lock jostling. A chair scrapes over wooden floorboards inside, light under his door shifting slightly if it's of an evening, then quiet. The doctor is in, but he apparently won't be taking patients - or visitors. ]

c) [ Or it might be the rare occasion he's forgotten to lock his door. Knocking receives no answer, speaking doesn't get a response either, but the landlady hadn't mentioned he'd gone out, so either he's off on some trip by magical shortcut or he's sitting stubbornly in his chair, making not a peep, or...

Or, as is actually the case, he's sitting up on his bed, fully clothed and fast asleep, the pages of the book he'd been reading newly creased where it had dropped out of his grip. His brow is furrowed and his skin's taken on a pallor, the darkening circles under his eyes more evident in his stillness than they might otherwise be. ]

[ Nestled in a small stretch of towering city that no longer has the vibrancy it had when its creator was around, a building that stands out from the rest for how present it is. A sense of being occupied, not through any physical cues so much as an innate draw. This building, old brick and stone and precise architecture, is a place to go when there is a need. Not necessarily safe, or even welcoming, but ready to receive. Not everybody likes to visit their doctor, but sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and go.

It isn't the behemoth it had been the first time around. Reduced to a comfortable 4 storeys, it's still a little vast, but it's doesn't give off the same oppressive energy. The plaque on the wall where the property number should be reads the full address details of his current residence in Cadens in case anybody's having trouble tracking him down, and one beneath that offers his most recent location whenever he's out of town and feels like providing it: En route to Aquila is the note during the second week of his time in the Free Cities.

When he's out of office the front door is locked up tight (though the building itself can still be broken into through any of its various windows or a quick morphing of the domain itself for explorations of a space that isn't quite sure if it's a townhouse, a hotel or a museum) but when he's inside, the door is unlocked for anybody inclined to wander straight into the foyer. The doorbell will almost always summon him down for anybody who'd rather not invite themselves inside without permission. ]

[ There's a letter slot in the front door for any written messages to be posted when he's away, a front step for any bigger deliveries (steal his stuff at your own risk), and the brass-faced door-entry system has a note scrawled on paper taped to the panel indicating a second button to press to record a message if you don't get a response from inside. ]

He's inside until close to the last second, keeping an eye on proceedings, available as back-up for anyone trying to ensure no significant harm comes to any of the frozen Thorneans in the execution yard - or to one another. When the final minutes come around and he's as sure as he can be that the people he knows who wanted to step through the Free Cities portal have done so, he follows in after.

His list of immediate priorities is short. He's been keeping an eye on the space beyond the portal, remaining conscious of any disruption the other side, but there doesn't seem to have been much. The danger was worse in Thorne than outside of it, at least through this avenue. In the absence of immediate threats, attention turns to checking in with allies before branching off to establish a better understanding of the situation. That means Sam Wilson and Peter Parker, both of whom he's caught up with recently, and it also means Jonathan Sims and crew. Recently almost executed Jonathan Sims, to be precise, whose airways could do with a once over for peace of mind if nothing else, not to mention whatever other mistreatment he's suffered in the run up to the late cancellation. There won't be anything he can do straight away, but he can at least make a more informed supply run once he knows what he's working with.

Following the rest of them past the guards and into the city, Stephen allows the flow of people to bustle him where they will, on the assumption that the current will eventually wash him up wherever the rest of them have wandered.

Lo and behold, it does.

"Sims."

Called loudly in a bid to get his attention as Stephen weaves through the final throng of people to reach him. Still alive, so that's a start.

Still alive, still standing. Visibly grey with fatigue, but standing all the same. He looks back, and then with a word for Kiryu and Coraline, redirects their path into a space out of the flow of foot traffic. He looks, if anything, more disheveled than he did on the gallows, mostly because he's pulled his hair forward to hide the extra eyes winking in his face.

"Looks like we've made it."

It's a grim state of affairs. Freedom from tyranny can't feel like much when the outcome is wandering exhausted through unfamiliar streets, afraid of the consequences of your own appearance. The once-over he gives Sims says about all it needs to. Extra eyes aside, he doesn't look great.

"Yeah."

A stack of crates wedged up against the wall of a nearby building looks as good a place as any for an on-the-fly examination. Stephen cants his head that way in indication and sets off toward them, ancitipating his patient will follow.

He nods, parting from his fellows to join him, rubbing a hand down his face. The limp he had before seems to have worked itself out - there's no sign of it now.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with me at this point that some sleep won't fix." He still takes a seat, though he's not sure it's wise. Getting up again sounds like a feat. "With my powers back, I'm more durable than I look."

"No offence, but that's not saying much."

He looks like shit. But at least the only way from there is up, and a supernaturally enhanced tendency not to stay down when you're kicked there is a handy trait to have when you're as out of your depth as they all are by default of the situation.

And Sims is humouring him, so that's another point in his favour.

"Did you put much weight on the rope?"

Jon lifts his bad hand immediately, shielding his throat and the bloodshot eye there. He glances back at where Coraline and Kiryu wait, and keeps his voice low, makes himself relax again. Lower that hand. "Just a little, there at the end of Ambrose's little performance."

He had been ready, after all.

Ah. Stephen ducks the smallest nod of understanding, expression a little more careful, the softer end of a frown. Still a little raw to be asking questions about the rope, noted.

"How does it feel?"

His throat.

The question makes him clear his throat out of reflex. The eye squints - it's large enough it should be an obstruction there. By all outside appearances, it's replaced his adam's apple. But it doesn't interfere.

"It's fine. Feels clear, nothing hurts when I swallow or talk. I- I am in better shape than I deserve to be. Had a chance to... feed my patron, on our way out, and I took it."

He's not sure he likes the sound of that. But then again, he's not sure Sims does either, and the more important thing here is that they managed to get out at all. Sometimes, it takes what it takes.

"Let's not start throwing 'deserve' around." It's too large of a concept to quantify, and they have bigger things to worry about than establishing the premises for an ensuing discussion on ends justifying means. "No pain is good for now. Any acute pain anywhere else?"

He shakes his head. "I had my face introduced to a wall and a boot to the knee first thing this morning too, but that's been taken care of as well. He rubs his forehead - there's a trace of dried blood at the hairline, but no wound. Not even a scar, though among Jon's many, a new one might be hard to determine.

"It's a- a benefit. No NHS here, but at least I still have the Ceaseless Watcher," he says with a grin that is not happy. "If Ambrose didn't have that spell to depower us, I'm not sure even the noose would have done much more than hurt."

Unsettling but not unheard of. That this entity has enough power over Sims' physiology to spare him from death and long-standing injury is just going to have to be looked on as a blessing.

He's also going to have to admit defeat over trying to administer rudimentary doctoring on a vessel of fear itself. No significant pain, no lasting wounds. The slant to his expression says he isn't happy to let it go, but...

"When you find somewhere to stay, I want you to clean anything that hasn't closed over and watch out for any sign of infection. Do you know Sam Wilson?"

He's fairly sure everyone at this point knows Sam Wilson, but it's worth checking before he starts rattling off an instruction without context.

He nods, propping his elbows on his knees, hands in his hair for a moment. He is so tired.

"He helped me... down." He'd almost collapsed on the man.

Of course he had. He's about to carry on down that line when Jon sinks into himself, clearly beyond spent for the day, and it occurs to Stephen that while grilling him on potential injury he hasn't checked him for shock. Something tells him he's immune to that too, but it doesn't mean his body couldn't do with some assistance away from the brink.

Stephen reaches out and a moment later there's a small tin mug in his hand, liquid inside hot and sweet with honey.

"Hey." He waits until he has the other man's attention, then holds out the offering. "Drink this."

Jon scrapes his hair back before looking up, and stares at the mug for a second before he takes it. Even here in the heat of the desert, suddenly having something warm in his hands is welcome. He just holds it for a moment, willing himself to rally.

"Where did this come from?"

"The cup's from a table a few streets back, I'll return it when you're done. The tea's home-made."

By which he means he conjured the liquid himself, long since practiced in magicking up a decent brew, but the cup he borrowed. Stephen watches, waiting.

"The only special ingredient is honey. I try not to poison or curse my patients. I think it might've been in the oath."

“Has to ask.” But his eyes shut when he takes a sip because it is tea, tea from Earth.

“They don’t grow the right plant here. It’s always just off.”

"The perils of extra-universal travel."

Tea just doesn't taste like it should. There's no doubt they'll find an ever growing list of things like that, adjacent things that are almost there but not quite. Another world's wares, recognisable but other.

"Well. If you ever need a hit, you know who to ask."

That makes him laugh a little too hard as he rubs his face, straightening up a little.

"Sorry, Doctor, I'm in a relationship."

A little scoff of surprise at the response. Okay there, Mr. Energy, he sees you rallying for a quick retort.

"And when your boyfriend learns to make tea from the cosmic energy of the multiverse, he can be your dealer. Until then..."

Until then, he's got the market cornered. On a more serious note -

"I imagine Wilson will tell everyone where he's ended up as soon as he can. Anything gets worse and you can't find me, let him know. He'll pass on the word."

Jon nods, shoulders still hitching at his own joke as he drinks the rest of his cosmic energy tea. The last mouthful is thick with honey, perfect, and he sighs a little.

"Wouldn't surprise me if Martin does."

He offers the borrowed cup back.

"I- expect I won't have trouble finding you, or Wilson."

Oh, right. The Knowing. Accepting the cup back, Stephen draws his palm absentmindedly over the top and it covers itself in an amber glow. Wouldn't be polite to send it back without a clean.

"Great. In that case, send someone to me direct if things go south. I'll be headed into the city to gather some supplies, so I should be better equipped to help."

(OPEN) I left my body with the old landlady

CADENS,

(OPEN) week 1, private lodging.

(OPEN) week 1, out and about; markets.

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(OPEN) week 3 and beyond, out and about; magic/portals.

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(OPEN) week 3 and beyond, private lodging; cw: implied early sickness

HORIZON, (OPEN).

(OPEN) always open, out of office options.

CLOSED STARTERS,

for jon,

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