Wᴇ'ʟʟ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ sᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴄʀᴏss ʟᴀɴᴅ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )

[righteously]

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

Comments

[righteously]

( He manages, by the grace of God, not to make any smart-ass comments when Jaskier yelps and reflex-plants the severed arm. It helps that this situation's so grim, that he feels an unpleasant thread of discomfort unfurling in his belly the longer he looks at this thing and sees a victim rather than a monster. Now that it isn't attacking, now that it's still rather than threatening, it's hard to miss the little details.

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. )

[gynvael]

[ Activated when it was pissed upon is a novel scenario, even for Geralt. He gathers a few more of its chunks into a pile. Seems unwise to leave it where others could stumble across it. He isn't sure it was ever meant to be found.

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. ]

[cointosser]

Oh, shut it, you loggerheaded mooncalf! [He doesn't need to understand whatever the man is referencing to know it's a joke at his expense. With a huff, he turns back to the Witcher. His hand clamps down over Geralt's arm, holding the blood as the magic pulses between them, healing the wound enough that it no longer bleeds, though it leaves angry red skin behind. Something a better healer can deal with.

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.

[righteously]

( The sharp retort goes once again unacknowledged, sliding off Dean without further commentary. This time, perhaps less to do with any commitment to peacefulness between them and more to do with the striking resonance he still feels from looking at the poor bastard. The pit, the iron, the blood, the pain. I cannot even fathom what this poor bastard has been through.

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. )