ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
righteously) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2024-01-04 09:23 am
righteously) wrote in abraxaslogs2024-01-04 09:23 am
Wᴇ'ʟʟ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ sᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴄʀᴏss ʟᴀɴᴅ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )
Who: Dean, Geralt, Jaskier
When: The month of January
Where: The Badlands
What: The three amigos take a long trip to the Badlands on a hunt, only to stumble across something Very Sus.
Warnings: typical canon-related violence
Oᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪᴇʟᴅs
I ғɪɢʜᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴍʏ ᴍᴇᴀʟs
I ɢᴇᴛ ᴍʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ
When: The month of January
Where: The Badlands
What: The three amigos take a long trip to the Badlands on a hunt, only to stumble across something Very Sus.
Warnings: typical canon-related violence
I ғɪɢʜᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴍʏ ᴍᴇᴀʟs
I ɢᴇᴛ ᴍʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ
no subject
The latter, Geralt might be pleased to note, is the very same horse he'd taken for the first test ride of the day some weeks ago. Although he'd been reluctant to commit immediately at the time, some waffling back and forth on his own had seen him returning to the horse master and following through with the purchase. Chevelle, formerly Shovel, seems to have a much more tolerant disposition than Karen had, and also seems pleased to see Roach — as much as a horse can really seem anything when it's being actively ridden with purpose.
They shuffle out of the dusty gates and begin their trip with calm, companionable early-morning quiet — for the most part. It isn't long into the trip that it becomes apparent why Dean asked to ride along.
He means to try and map some of it, as best he can. He's brought along his journal, spare parchment, spare inkless quills and pencils taken from Sam. A cartographer he is not, but he's got some experience making rudimentary maps that serve other hunters well enough, and that's exactly the target audience here. People who will take good enough over nothing.
It seems to him that there aren't many Summoned experienced in navigating the Badlands aside from Geralt. He knows Sam Wilson's taken a turn or two through it, but he thinks it's smart to have a few others, for redundancy — in case either Geralt or Sam are indisposed. He wants to understand the landscape better, the monster population, the flora, the more passive fauna. It's an educational trip.
Which, for the first several days, translates into a boring trip. It's just constant riding, constant sun, constant sand, steep cliffs housing unwelcoming caves, and very, very little else so far. He finally breaks sometime before sunset on day five — frankly impressive restraint, coming from him — his head rolling back on his shoulders and the first long groan breaking from his throat. )
You know, I kind of expected the Badlands to be a little more- bad.
( Granted, they've barely traversed into the edges of the massive landscape and already the nights have been freezing, the days sweltering, the ravines bottomless and the water sources fewer and farther between. The entire place sucks, it's just been sucking way too ambiently for his ADHD toddler brain.
He'll regret saying this soon. The blighted land beneath them can't wait to hit him with the ol' fuck around, find out, and they're rapidly coming upon the first edges of territorial wildlife. )
no subject
The sky glows a soft pink as they ride out of the gates. The first night, he notices Dean marking paths in his journal. It isn't a bad idea, no. Geralt is a shit cartographer, and understanding what direction you're facing is only a fraction of navigating for him. He knows, for example, that there's a small oasis roughly four days southward. It sits between two rocky cliffs, but it's prone to becoming nesting grounds for sandcats between spring and summer. So, unless you're skilled at sensing when they may or may not be home, you should probably follow the birds, who he's noticed tend to congregate eastward and flit from a few different water sources some miles apart—depending on the season and weather. And, if you plan on taking shelter in a cave at night, you should look for marks in the ground from the dragging tail of a howler. The scratches are a slightly different depth than the much less troublesome moles.
He can't pinpoint where these things are on a map with accuracy. The only person who can grasp his directions is Ciri.
Since they're in winter, the oasis is where they stop for the night before moving on. Geralt is content with the peace and quiet, interrupted only by Jaskier and Dean intermittently chattering (or bickering). Temperatures are not nearly as high as in the summer months, and the much colder nights are a welcome reprieve.
Five days is two days longer than Geralt anticipated Dean would begin to complain. Perhaps the map-making helped distract him.
Without glancing over, he takes Jaskier's offered berries, freshly grown from a small bush last night, and then passes them along to Dean. ] Should I have taken the scenic path through the wyverns?
[ At a certain point, there will be no more riding around monster nests, but doing so for the first leg of the journey is simple enough. It does, however, result in a thoroughly uneventful ride. But they're here to find monsters—a specific set of them—and that means Geralt will soon guide them directly towards where the massive sandworms like to burrow. Amongst other things. ]
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It is testament to Jaskier's belief in his chaos -- and his experience with traveling -- that he does so surprisingly light. His lute hangs from his back, and a dagger is strapped to his boot, but otherwise only a small saddlebag hangs from the chocobo to keep her load light.
Sometimes, he sings -- or practices his singing. Oftentimes he's writing with his journal carefully balanced on his legs, quill scratching as he pulls a hood over his head to shield his neck from the sun. At night he grows fruits and bright green grasses good for chewing to rid the mouth of sand, and pools of water he uses to fill their skins.
Once the night comes where Dean begins to complain (at least he lasted this long,) Jaskier only snorts. Rather soft for all his hard edges, isn't he?]
I wouldn't have minded the wyverns. At least you would've had a little something to keep limber with. [And they may be false dragons, but they're rather adorable. If Cadens ever had a merchant to come through with domesticated wyverns...] And maybe I'd love to watch your budding little Witcher fight his way through half a dozen fully-grown wyverns.
[Said between one berry popped into his mouth and the next, lips curled upward with amusement. Ah. Something about it would definitely be quite fun.]
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But his patience was always a limited timespan. Such is the nature of the oldest Winchester.
Budding little Witcher earns an eye roll, but otherwise, no commentary. He seems pretty content to let the quips go sliding off this trip, rather than giving into the old habit of bickering — a plan that was almost blown out of the water immediately when he saw the giant freaking bird Jaskier's riding. His deep appreciation for the fresh fruit on demand outweighs his bird-horse skepticism. )
Wyverns wouldn't have been so bad. Might be a bitch to fight, but at least they taste like chicken. Just... angrier.
( Not to be confused with 'spicier', which is a totally different flavor. )
I never asked, what's the Sandskid contract for, anyway? You harvesting for parts, or did someone really just want 'em dead all the way up here?
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It is not unlike how Dean and Jaskier have progressed.
He tips his head. A moment passes where he tries to determine if Dean actually has eaten a wyvern before he moves on. Meat is meat. As they say. ]
Marek Cresthill complained that something swallowed his horse whole last week, saddlebags and all. Says if anyone can cut his mistress's jewel out of the beast, he'll return the cost of it double. He won't tell her the truth that he lost it, and she won't stop hounding him.
[ A worm big enough to eat a horse alive? Can't be too many of that size out there. And, if he can't find the man's precious gem for the woman, then he can sell the teeth to the apothecary down the street. He'll earn his coin one way or another. ]
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[He wouldn't mind something more than the fat-bare desert hares Geralt often catches. Not that they're bad, but Jaskier does prefer a bit of greasy dark meat with those hints of drippy fat.
Jaskier goes back to stretching his legs out, quill scratching after he's sucked the ink from the tip, spit it, and redipped it. Unfortunately, he's learning Mog's feathers are very finicky as writing quills. Possibly because he's still so small. He pauses in his scratches, looking between them with a raised brow. Huh. He's never really thought of asking the details of Geralt's contracts, mostly because he offers hardly more than what he gets out of it. Whatever beast is at the end of the contract receives the same fate.]
What's he doing leaving jewels in his horse for? [Jaskier sighs.] I bet it's that bloody worm that almost did us in. Oh, I was really hoping never to see it again, actually.
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He hadn't considered that they might be hunting the same thing that attacked them a few weeks back, and he seems to perk up immediately at the thought. )
Oh, hell yeah. I hope it's the same one, I'd love a chance to take that giant asshole down.
( Two types of people in the world, it seems.
Two days later, though there's absolutely no way to prove it, Dean will swear on life and limb it's the same one. As though his few seconds of glances between running had been enough to cement one very indistinct giant Sandskid from another.
What matters is Geralt only almost gets swallowed once, Dean only gets knocked flat on his back two (three, but who's counting) times, and in the end between the two of them they manage to slit the thing open nearly tip to tail while Jaskier stands just barely sort of in range of the splash zone.
It's a gorey, brutal mess. While Dean's got no qualms getting his hands dirty during the actual fight, and he walks away covered in just as much viscera as Geralt, he blanket refuses to go digging through the stomach contents in search of that jewel on account of the fact that it's gross and he doesn't wanna. Look, he can't fully succumb to his germophobe instincts, but he can draw the line somewhere.
Instead, he stands over the beast while Geralt scavenges through intestines and idly remarks: )
You think Sandskid tastes like chicken? Or does it taste more like... worm?
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His sword is covered in blood and a thick blue-green substance. At some point during the fight, the back of his hand sprouted a fang that looked suspiciously like the sharp talons of the enormous centipede. Preoccupied with the worm's gaping maw, Geralt fails to notice before the fang falls off, lost to dirt and dust.
Naturally, he ends up digging through the pile of intestines alone while Dean considers the culinary merits of worm meat. He makes no effort to convince Dean to join him; Geralt is driven purely by practicality, and practicality says that things will go much smoother and quicker if he were to just. Get this fucking part of the job done. So that's what he does. He splits its sack-like insides with his hunting knife and rummages through a mixture of bile and chunks of half-digested horse until a glint catches his eye.
Hm.
Geralt retrieves the green stone without a word. Takes the gold, too, which he plans on keeping if the man shorts him what he's owed. Multiple detached teeth later, Geralt tosses the pouch of worm fangs at Dean. The jewel and swallowed coin go to Jaskier.
He peers at the sun, low in the sky. ] We should make camp nearby. No sense in disturbing the sands at night.
[ By the time the sky turns dark, they have a crackling fire to keep the dipping temperatures at bay. A bubbling pot hangs over the flames. Geralt sits to the side, rag in hand. Entrails cling to his hair, dried and sticky, though he's more interested in cleaning his blade than himself. ]
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He's hardly the first man to stand around while Geralt does all the killing. (For clarity, Jaskier does not consider himself this man. His intended subjects are other useless people -- like knights claiming to slay dragons, and incompetent Nilfgaardian guards. Jaskier is excluded on the basis he has never claimed to slay anything except maidenly hearts.)
Unfortunately, they do run into the sand worm. Or another like it. Fortunate for Jaskier, and not for Dean, Jaskier is, actually, counting how many timers he lands on his ass, which he's sure to add to the song -- Thrice was he struck down / Once for each head / Hastily run out from under / The worm's tail to the ground -- scribbling the words into his head as he ducks behind a rocky outcropping nearby, peeking out only for a glimpse every now and then.
He is the only one who comes out of the battle without a hint of gore on him. Practice makes perfect, and he has had decades of it.
Jaskier packs the jewel and coin into a secret compartment of his lute case, and sets them up with a victorious dessert of fresh strawberries and wine (the former grown magically, the latter something he's packed.) Only once he's had his fill of dinner and dessert does he offer to take the first watch, setting up on the outskirts of the camp with Feainna's giant feathered body tucked up against him as she sleeps. The desert is hardly quiet even at night, but all the sounds are familiar -- skittering on the sands, the wind, even the dying crackles of a fire. Jaskier gently wakes the chocobo to be alert as he goes to relieve himself in some desert brush only a bit away.
He may have magic, but he's quite often used to traveling under the light of only the stars and moon, so surely it is not his fault he does not notice anything amiss until the sound his piss makes hitting the ground does not sound like sand or bush. Jaskier hits something with his boot, which makes a very solid clunk. Only when he squints does he reconize --
A foot.
Ah, fuck. He'd promised himself he would never accidentally piss on a corpse again --
But the sand slithers, and Jaskier hastily puts himself up as there is movement in the moonlight. A. A lot of movement. In fact, the foot slides itself out from under the bush and begins to show that is attached to quite a lot of body, actually.
Surely Geralt and Dean will be happy to awaken to the sounds of a running bard yelling:]
GERALT I PISSED ON A CORPSE --- GERALT! -- IT IS ALIVE NOW -- OH FUCKING FUCK WOULD YOU FUCK OFF ALREADY --
no subject
And then comes the world's worst alarm, and he goes from the beginnings of a very interesting dream about Darth Vader and air hockey to upright, sword in hand, adrenaline pounding before his mind has even processed the words Jaskier's saying. He's on his feet with speed rivaling Geralt, and he manages two entire strides forward before the words fully process — and he stops abruptly in his puzzlement.
I pissed on a corpse it is alive now.
Wait- )
What? ( A sharp look's shot Geralt's direction, seeking clarification that the other man can't possibly give him. ) Did he just say he pissed a corpse to life?
( Neither Geralt nor Jaskier need bother answer — the pissed corpse does it for them. It lurches into the firelight one limb at a time — what Dean notices first is the musculature of a thigh, the lines stark and unhealthy, too-defined, the way they can only be in something that has been dehydrated a long time. The rusted metal restraints and jagged nails protruding from it look like tetanus, they look like the movie Hostel feels.
Next comes the sway of an arm, clubbed at the fist, with a length of wrought-iron bar like a stinger jutting from where fingers ought to have been.
And then the face. The teeth, the grimace, the lips peeled back, the halo of straps and hellish pain that remind him of the Rack — or the movie Hellraiser (which, by the way, astounding how much that series got right). It is a mechanical nightmare. It is an abomination in the eyes of God. It's a pitiful and terrible creature that cannot be called human anymore. It is...
Wearing a gas mask on its dick.
Why? )
Hey, so... ( He starts slowly, raising his sword to the ready, but hesitating — just to be sure: ) What are the odds this thing's, like, a sentient... torture victim escapee?
( As if to answer his question, those gingivitis nightmare teeth part what few centimeters its hardware allows, and it unleashes a rusty, piercing shriek before clumsily sprinting toward them, spike-fist raised. )
Nevermind.
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A what? The fuck is—
He's trying to consider what Jaskier could mean; the dead have not roamed the desert since the unfortunate incident with the Heralds, and no creatures here could be mistaken for a living corpse.
As it turns out, he need not wonder for long: the answer lumbers into full view as Jaskier flees past him. His fingers curl around his sword's grip. He cocks his head to the side. The smell of decay permeates the air. And something more, something...unnatural. Metal joints creak. It moves in stuttering steps, its body poorly controlled. What the fuck. Where did it—? He's reminded suddenly, vividly, of the mutated mass of young women he found at Vuilpanne. A grotesque abomination that could only be created by other men.
Geralt shoots a glance at Dean, equally bewildered by its appearance. It likely is a victim. One that must've escaped. He thinks he can guess from where, though he hasn't time to reflect on that. There is a void behind its hollow eyes and the absence of a heartbeat that tells him all he needs to know.
The monster's weighted steps sink into the sand, kicking up dust. It's startlingly fast—long limbs and unrestrained exertion making up for its ungainly lurches. He dodges the first swipe, then parries the second. His blade catches the sliver of flesh between the cuffs, a deep cut that nearly severs its hand at the wrist. The blow should send the manmade beast reeling back. Instead, it doesn't even flinch. Just throws its entire weight at him without a pause in its step. He catches the damn thing straight to the chest, landing flat on his back. ]
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And with enough space between himself and the fire, where he ducks behind the horses, where Feainna has also come to tremble with a pathetic, wisp of a kweh call to him, her body shivering. While she's much larger than the corpse, Jaskier's panic has only pinged the bird part of her brain that knows fear is meant to be shared. Thus bard and bird stay behind the horses... both peeking out at the corpse that followed him to camp. Despite his shaking hands, still startled by the appearance of the creature, Jaskier gathers the horses' reins and coaxes Feainna to stay near him, as they all cuddle together some safe distance away.]
Get it! Oh -- dodge! Chop its bloody head off!
[That rotten-toothed grin is going to be haunting his nightmares. His encouragement hardly shows any worry for Geralt, because getting thrown about is hardly new for him.]
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Instead, he acts on instinct and throws out a hand. From it comes the blinding white light of Grace — celestial and avenging, it blasts the creature off of Geralt without touching so much as a hair on the Witcher's head. The first gift he ever earned from that giant fuck-off rock at the center of the world. Old reliable. Unfortunately, there aren't many things out here for the monster to slam into for a little bonus damage. A conveniently located cactus or boulder outcropping would be nice, but no such luck. It goes reeling through the air some ten or fifteen yards, then skids to a stop on sun-hardened desert dust, kicking up a cartoonish cloud around it.
Dean offers a hand out to Geralt, to help haul him quickly to his feet.
That blast should've snapped a leg or two. Should've stunned it for at least a second. It should not already be on its feet, clearing the distance with jerkier, even more feral movements — but it is. Almost as quickly as Geralt is upright again, that thing is nearly in strike range.
The sound that comes from its throat will stick with Dean for days. It is hoarse, gravel-dirt-dust-dry, crackling and abject. He realizes with a horrific start that it's trying to scream, and only parched, mournful vocal static is coming out.
He means to put it out of its misery. A quick dip down to his boot where he keeps a dagger, and one expert fling sends it flying through the air. It's more than enough force for the blade to embed itself all the way to the hilt in the dead center of the creature's forehead. He genuinely, genuinely thinks that will be enough to do it.
It does not stop running. Apparently these things don't abide by traditional zombie rules. Who'd have guessed? )
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The monster twists to its feet, rusted joints squealing. Geralt grasps the offered hand. He pays little mind to Jaskier behind him; they've done this a thousand times, and the bard is well capable of taking cover.
His eyes are fixed on the creature—how it doesn't slow or stop. Not even its painfully awkward movements deter it. What is it? Some sort of magic sustaining it? In the machinery?
As it barrels forward, Geralt steps in to meet it. He slams his shoulder into its withered body. The second it topples backwards, he drives his sword through its midsection, staking it to the ground. Another terrible gurgle rips from its throat.
Bony limbs flail. The spike catches his arm, tearing down the length of it. This close, he can smell it again. An unnatural odour he recognizes, but could not name. Sharp and acrid; now mixed with his blood dripping. He tightens his grip on the creature—keeping it pinned so Dean can strike. They're both thinking the same thing, he expects: even a monster incapable of feeling pain can't go far if it's in pieces.
Head might be a place to start. ]
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But the head's still a good place to start.
A second and a half after Geralt pins it, Dean's sword is coming down in tandem like a well-choreographed maneuver. Right above the metal collar at its throat, severing through straps of leather, sending the hunk of teeth-chattering flesh rolling a few feet away in the dust.
The limbs continue to flail, tearing its own flesh on desert rock, snapping away its own fingernails as it claws for leverage and purchase. It reaches up to try and drive that spike into Geralt's face, and so the arm goes next, whacked cleanly off at the elbow. The hand that hits the dirt goes finally, blessedly still — which means they're on the right track.
The next few minutes are spent on the gross, painstaking process of chopping away limbs one after another until body parts and iron fastenings litter the ground around them. )
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Then he looks back at the mutilated corpse. ]
I found something like it before. A piece of it.
[ He shakes his head. That mineshaft he discovered months ago had been heavily sealed, the cavern abandoned. This monster appears the same. Whatever it is—had it come from the same place? He can't imagine how it could've escaped after the collapse. So it must've been before. Has it wandered the desert ever since? Is it even aware of its own existence? (Are there others like it? Who was it before it became...this?)
He glances over his shoulder again at Jaskier as he reaches for a detached hand. They can't leave the pieces scattered about. ] When you saw it, it wasn't moving?
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(Dean was fine... he supposes. The light trick was handy. Jaskier will allow some credence towards his skills in that he put them towards aiding Geralt and not getting in his way, as most do.)
Jaskier, after silence pervades versus that dry huffing, approaches once he's calmed Faeinne and the horses.] Stay here, love. [He gives the girl a kiss on the beak, then carefully steps over one of the severed arms. It twitches suddenly, and he yelps, throwing himself past it as vines burst out of the ground to wrap around it, securing it against the sands.
Clearly it wasn't something he meant to do; it was sort of an instinctual reaction, like pissing oneself. (Which he did not do.)]
I miss when corpses stayed dead. [He peers down at the arm, which has gone still in the hold of his vines. Jaskier pokes it. It's dry to the touch, and very much old human skin. It doesn't react.] Was it -- do you think I'd piss on a moving body? [He doesn't wait for an answer.] The problem is, Geralt, I didn't see it. At first. Because I didn't expect a dried old corpse to be sleeping under desert brush. [He was a bit busy pissing at the time.] But I hadn't heard anything prior, and neither had my chocobo, so I think not. It sort of... activated... when the -- you know --
["When the piss hit it" is not a usual poetic line coming from him, so he refrains from completing the sentence.]
Anyway, come here. [He makes a grabby hand at Geralt's arm, but doesn't touch it, only leaves a hand hovering that collects a blue glow of magic.] I can at least stop the bleeding since you did all the hard work.
[And Dean. Maybe.]
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The bolts driven into flesh. The hooks and wires embedded into skin. The iron bands fixed into place.
He thinks of the rack. He thinks of his time on it. He thinks of his time off of it even more, staring down at things who didn't look entirely so different from this well before he was done with them.
He peels himself up and away from the corpse abruptly, leaving his spot and leaving the thought in the same motion, forcing it down and steering his eyes back toward Jaskier. )
Well, Pisstopher Columbus, you discovered it, technically. That means you get to name it.
( It's an even more apt metaphor if you consider the fact that Christopher Columbus didn't actually discover shit and that monster clearly existed well before either of the three of them stumbled across it. Still, it needs a name, so they know what to refer to it as later — something that isn't screwed up mechanical clockwork torture victim, because they don't have that kinda time. )
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A frown etches into his brows. He is no stranger to the twisted horrors humans can create, but it's never the most pleasant of encounters. This creature—it can't be the only one. Can it? Are there more? Are they still making more? Ones that they find valuable enough not to abandon?
His gaze flicks to Dean, then Jaskier. He lets the bard take his arm. The wound is minimal—by his standards—but it isn't until he looks at it that he realizes the gash burns deeper than it ought to. The skin around it is red, hot to the touch.
Must've been something in those spikes.
He sighs. Not this again. ] Do name it before Dean does.
[ He's learnt his lesson. He trusts in Jaskier's name than he does Dean. They do not need another Geralt Junior in existence. ]
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Jaskier takes a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the blood from his hand, going back to lean over the creature -- now in pieces -- that is quite clearly more man than beast. What was overwhelming fear and a desire for, you know, Geralt to cut its head clean from its shoulders peters out into a distinct sadness, looking down on part of its torso, contorted into some sort of... metal contraption. Covered in scars. Everywhere. Nearly every inch of skin is mottled, possibly from age, but... from the metal driven through its joints, it cannot be only from age.]
It's a man, not a monster. [Not a beast to be named. He kneels, carefully holding onto its bicep (wincing to himself) as he removes one of the needles driven deep into its skin. The arm no longer moves; whatever magic -- or life -- was fueling it appears to have spent itself.] Prìosanach na feòla. [The Elder flows off his tongue, quiet. No man would willingly subject himself to this. He can only hope he was dead before it happened. (None of them are that lucky.) It is not meant to be a name... but a description. Something, he thinks, the three of them all very much recognize.] A prisoner of flesh. [He takes a sharp breath. Fire, burning, in the back of his mind. The sounds of his own screams.] I cannot even fathom what this poor bastard has been through.
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Lowly, under his breath and largely to himself, comes the dark mutter of: )
I can.
( But it doesn't matter. It doesn't bear thinking about. They can't undo it, it's already over, and whatever that thing is now, he's not a person anymore. He's a-
-whatever French thing Jaskier just said. Prisonach du frommage.
There's only one thing left to do. He gathers brush, and dead wood, and whatever else he can find to begin building a pyre. From his saddle bags he pulls out a hefty pouch of salt, and sprinkles it over the piled remains before they set the thing ablaze — just for good measure. He hasn't seen many restless spirits since he's gotten here, but if there were ever cause for one, whatever happened to this guy surely qualifies.
The ride home is grim.
What happens after, even more so. )