abraxaslogs | [ OPEN / CLOSED ] adieu to all the faceless things

[There's a keep on a mountain, Geralt had said. Come at sundown. If you can't find it, follow the wolf. Dress warm.

Being a man of few words, that had been the extent of the message. And given how the rest of their conversation had gone... Well, John had not been keen on digging too much further, when he had already dug enough for himself. But in retrospect, he should have realized that when he'd been told to dress warm, for a mountain, that that would mean snow.

Fortunately for John, he does wear boots on the regular. Unfortunately for him, they aren't specifically designed with a slippery tread in mind.

He wonders if it's possible for wolves to find amusement in another's misfortune. This one seems perfectly content to sit back and watch him struggle his way up the slope toward the front door of the keep, anyway.

He's just about made it when the massive wooden doors creak their way open and John just about leaps out of his skin, pressing a hand to his chest as he recognizes the face that peers out at him.]

Jesus-- [He does his best to collect himself, flashing the other man an embarrassed smile. His cheeks are bright pink with the cold and his embarrassment and there is snow collecting on his jacket and in his hair.] This is... Quite the establishment you have here.

[ John, Geralt is expecting. They'd made the arrangement three weeks ago, and Geralt is here as promised—now released back to his home in Cadens. Despite the curt words Geralt extended when they wrote each other, his greeting is a friendly enough tilt of his head—and an amused raise of his eyebrow. ]

Apologies. Didn't intend to startle you. [ He steps back, an implicit invitation for John to come inside. ] It serves its purpose. You'll have to excuse the draft.

[ It comes from the cracks in the walls and holes in the ceiling. Above where the gnarled medallion tree rises, snow continues to drift down through an opening in the roof that was never repaired.

Still, the braziers and cooking fire blaze, keeping the worst of the frost at bay. benches and long tables fill the main hall. Platters of simple bread and cheese sit atop. Geralt is the only one here, but the place is clearly made with many in mind. ]

Drink?

It certainly that, and then some.

[John steps forward across the threshold (doing his best to ignore the other man's amusement at his moment of surprise, excuse you Geralt!), glancing around the inside of the building with wonder.

There is an age to this place. It is there in the cracks in the walls, of course, but also in the stone itself. The tree is a unique feature to the hall, and it's clear that there is meaning in it. It's clear that there is a meaning and significance to this place beyond a simple gathering hall, at that, although knowing Geralt -- even as briefly as he has -- he has to wonder how much of it he will admit to readily. Serves its purpose indeed.

He glances back to the other man at the question, before inclining his head with a smile.]

Yes, please.

[ Though John may not know it, it's unusual for Geralt to invite another without purpose. He usually has a subject to discuss, a part of them he wishes to know better for strategic reasons, information he requires. John is simply...

Company. That he's agreed to meet again.

John's polite demeanour is starkly out of place. When was the last time any of his brothers uttered please? ]

It isn't as plush as yours. [ The furnishings, that is. Geralt swings one leg over a bench and picks up a jug. In a distant corner, the scrabble of a rat can be heard. ] But it's home.

[ Is, was. It still is, he thinks. He's simply made another home elsewhere, too. He accepted a long time ago he will not see the real Kaer Morhen again.

He holds out a mug to John. The ale isn't fancy, but it's strong. If there's one thing Witchers know how to do—killing aside—it's drink. ]

[John offers a smile as he reaches out to take the mug from the other man. There's something about John's presence here in these surroundings that makes Geralt self-conscious about them, or at least conscious enough about them to comment on them. John is charmed, honestly. As much by the surroundings as Geralt's gruff way of introducing him to this place. By Geralt himself.]

A home does not need all the trappings of a palace to make it precious. Indeed, some of the most unhappy of places I have been have been the most extravagant.

[John has not been invited, but Geralt is sitting himself, and he is trying to prove a point that he may be nobility but he is not so fancy that he does not belong here too. So after a moment, John swings a leg over the bench to join him on the bench.]

Does it have a name?

[The hall. Not the drink.]

No. [ Geralt agrees easily. Kaer Morhen is crumbling, and he doesn't pretend otherwise, but it's theirs. The scars that mark it have been inextricably intertwined with what it means to him. From the attacks, sure—but from his brothers, too. Gouges in tables and cracked bowls from too many brawls to count (over inconsequential shit). He's recreated it stone by missing stone for a reason—even down to the rats that occupy the warmest rooms.

Wouldn't be the same without them.

He places the mug between his legs on the bench. ] Kaer Morhen. [ Or Caer a'Muirehen, as the elves once called it. ] It's well-hidden on the Continent, but here...

[ He gives a shrug. Makes no difference here. The path up the mountain has been significantly shortened, a hike that takes minutes as opposed to weeks. ]

[With the attention to detail that has been paid, it is difficult to remember that this is not in fact the real place but a recreation of the hall that Geralt has done himself.

Kaer Morhen. The name on its own means nothing to John, but the look of the place.

He glances around, taking in the sight of it with what little information he has been given. A keep, well hidden up the side of a snowy mountain, it seems both fortress and -- well. A home, as Geralt had described. These tables they sit at seem well-used, in the same way the chairs in the Beefsteak's library do. Perhaps not in quite the same manner, judging by the gouges here and there, but. John cannot help but wonder about the nature of the place and its specific significance to the man who sits before him...]

There is no need for nearly as much protection, in this place?

[John hazards. After all, in his domain, if Geralt does not wish for guests or visitors, there are other ways to ward them off, besides making the environs inhospitable for all.]

[ His lips curl wryly. ] Not nearly.

[ He made this place to take visitors. After he fled Thorne, there were more than a handful of others he separated from, people he wanted to look in on again after all they went through together. Most of whom are now gone.

There are new faces, always.

For a moment, he's quiet. He's learned more about John since they last spoke, though he isn't certain how much of it John would have wanted him to learn. He leaves the matter alone for now, tilting his head towards the general expanse of the hall. John shared something of himself during their previous encounter. Geralt is not a sharer, but he supposes there's no reason to avoid stating what this place stands for. ]

This is where Witchers are forged.

[ In blood and steel and magic. He's sealed some of his darker memories away at last—the cellar below is now a pleasant temple in spring—but they'll always be a part of the keep. ]

[Forged.

John is an observant man, and he understands that it is a deliberate choice of wording. Geralt is not a man for idle words, after all. He has not explained what a Witcher is, for instance, although this being a place of significance to him, his home, John may be able to hazard a guess.

It does create some questions, but sitting across from him on this bench, gazing into Geralt's golden eyes, John does not press. There is something about the other man's general reticence that reminds him of the halls around them. The walls stand strong and silent around them, but here and there a gouge or break in the stonework tells the tale of damage done long ago.

Taking in a quiet breath, John nods, before offering a tentative:]

And where they sit and share a drink with a friend?

[ Were John to ask, Geralt would have answered. John does not, so he allows what questions have arisen in the silence to lapse. Instead, he watches John in return. He is curious, a bit, about this soldier born into nobility and yet seemingly without much taste for fighting or finery.

Perhaps he's equally interested in John's apparent curiosity about him. He can't help sensing it extends beyond mere novelty.

A friend. Geralt is not as quick to call others a friend, but he does not deny the assertion. ]

Hm. [ He tilts his mug towards John's. ] We don't invite unwanted men into our halls.

[ And John is, after all, here with an invitation. ]

Cheers.

[John's lips quirk up into a smile at the other man's response, and he raises his mug toward Geralt's in return, before he raises it to take a sip. The drink is strong, but John has spent time stationed abroad in Prussia. So long as Geralt isn't planning on challenging him to any sort of contest, he can handle himself.

His gaze lingers on his companion as he lowers his mug once more. It is true, he has indeed received an invitation. One that John will do his best not to take advantage of. He gets the feeling that such things are not extended idly. Not from this man. This Witcher. The White Wolf. Is that not how he had first introduced himself, at the masquerade?]

It is... A brotherhood. Is it not.

[Equal parts question and statement. From the well-worn, well-loved look of the tables in the hall, to what sentimentality Geralt has shown for it thus far, that is how this place feels to John at any rate. And who is he to judge? He has dedicated most of his own life enlisted in a brotherhood of his own, of a sort.]

[ Geralt confirms the observation with a tip of his head. ] We were brought here as boys. Raised and trained together.

[ To do what? is the natural question, but Geralt does not specify. There is nothing in the fortress that suggests an organized army once occupied these tables. There are no uniforms anywhere, no sense of standard, really. Even the medallions that hang on the tree are unique, each one shaped and engraved according to their wearer's preferences.

And the claw marks in some of the walls or floors suggest more than mere men once stormed the place.

But Geralt does not let the topic simmer for long. He seldom likes discussing himself at length. ]

I spoke to your... [ He weighs the next word. ] Friend. Claire. Your name came up.

[It is the natural question, but again John does not pry. The words that Geralt keeps choosing to use for this -- brought. Forged. It does not seem like a particularly pleasant experience. John may not be able to relate entirely, but his own experience of the army had been something of the sort. Before earning his commission, when Hal had "let" him come along with the 46th -- to Cullodden. If only they had known...

Instead, he allows Geralt to move the conversation along himself, although the new topic of choice surprises him. He raises his eyebrows, a new sort of smile twisting its way across his lips as he replies.]

Only good things, I hope?

[It is a tease, but -- Claire is the one person here who could share some of his deeper, darker secrets if she so chose.]

[ His time at Kaer Morhen was complicated at best, and his feelings to this day reflect that. He sees no reason to pretend otherwise, but he equally has little desire to dig deeply into it.

His lips twitch. Mm. ] She said you married her.

[ That phrasing, too, is particular. They had married, but it's clear from Claire's explanation that the circumstances were not for love. Not a romantic love, in any case. She'd said much more than just that, but.

Hm. He has to wonder if John did not disclose the information for Claire's privacy or his own. Both? Claire has told him easily enough, but he'd stumbled upon her in...a unique situation. ]

[ OPEN / CLOSED ] adieu to all the faceless things

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