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

[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. )