abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] talon and tooth

Entry tags:

[ CLOSED ] talon and tooth

Who: Geralt + Dion
When: Start of January
Where: Nocwich
What: Questing
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon

the skull of a wolf,
the horns of a ram,
and the body of an overgrown millipede;

(( plot with me

discontinued ))

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[Dion's first response is a deep hum of understanding in his throat, which feels heavy and swollen as he swallows. The dead are equivalent to the weight of a wave -- no, a sea -- and every mention of them, of their reminder, of the ether of their ghosts and their lost potentials, as heavy as the world itself. It is so easy still, with such distance and time, to drown under the shadow of them.

There are days he wakes and wishes he would. That he craves nothing else but what solace such darkness can provide. That surely nothing less could give such solace to a heart burdened with pain --

If he allowed himself to think it, that is the real reason he did not go to the island. The dead would be there to pull him under.]

The dead are more like to hold the truths we would rather forget than answers. [Or those answers are already known.

His grip tightens on his lance; a moment passes where it feels like he cannot breathe, and then it moves on. His heart finds its pace again. His fingers do not shake so.]

I am glad you survived. [It brings only the smallest, measured feeling of peace with it, but it is no less true.] You, and the others. I hope you are none worse the wear for having survived.

[Claude, he thinks, had held some darkness in his eyes when he brought it up -- a hesitation in his tone. Even Geralt's breath was knife-sharp, though Geralt, he knows, bears the scars of many battles. This was no simple monster, he thinks. No simple battle won, to melt in the foggy memories of all of them, which bleed together with too much time, and too many battles... ] Though such hopes change nothing.

[ Truths, yes. That, he knows well. The living lie and obscure; the dead have no such designs. A corpse will tell him how long ago was its last breath. It will bear the marks of its attacker and its last moments. More than a few secrets have been unleashed by the departed.

It's only that this once, he hasn't a need for those truths. He already knows them intimately. How they died. The mutations that ate through their flesh.

His gaze roams over Dion for the second or two that the man's heart stutter-steps. Then he looks forward again, a wry twist to his lips. ] Haven't had much to wear away in decades.

[ It's not meant to sound dire. He's just been through worse. He was created from worse. Horrors have plagued his nights for as long as he can remember. What does it matter if he dreams of the agony of the Trials or bloodied bodies across the snow or the fevers that gripped him in that cave? He still can't sleep for shit. Never could. That's simply how it is. He lives with it. He wakes up. He moves on. He finds his peace elsewhere when he can. In the companionship of his oldest friend, in the soft smiles of his daughter.

Before Dion can respond, a soft wail flits through the air, carried by the wind. Geralt urges his horse to slow her pace. The wolves accompanying them follow suit—ears as sensitive as his. He cocks his head, listening. He knows that sound. He's heard it before in the hunting woods, but...

Something feels different, too. He can't place his finger on it. ]

[While the answer, as off-putting as it can possibly be, is about what he expects from someone with the -- specific demeanor that Geralt possesses -- it still brings a somewhat amused tilt to the prince's lips. A grim amusement, if any, because he understands the depths of such words. He well recalls the scars across Geralt's back.

Decades, he thinks, is intriguing. However, he is no stranger to men who seemingly do not age, though what magic may lead to Geralt's decades, he knows not. Surely by appearance alone, he cannot be more than three or four decades himself.

Dion's amusement dies as quickly as it came. At first he only sees some reaction on Geralt's face, his horse slowing, but as he looks at the guards, he realizes they have sensed something as well. Dion lifts the butt of his lance from the ground as he steps ahead of them, eyes narrowed to the forest around them. The wagon does not stop, but certainly there is a wariness to their company.

It is several paces further where Dion hears what must have raised their hackles. His gaze snaps to Geralt.] A cry. [They need not confirm it. His lance shifts to his other hand.] Stay with the wagon. I shall investigate.

[He does not hesitate for an answer, but his approach towards the sound is a cautious one, though a quick one.]

Wait—

[ Fuck. Geralt dismounts, pulling his sword from its sheath as he follows Dion into the thicket of trees. The crescent moon shines down from above. The werewolves, he leaves with the wagons, though he suspects they must know what it might be, too, from the way they reach for their weapons at once. They're far more familiar with this land than either he or Dion.

Even so, it's simpler for the Lunae to stay back while he goes with Dion. The last thing they need is for that wagon to be torn apart by hungry beasts.

He brushes Dion's elbow to draw the man's attention. ] Careful. I recognize these creatures. They don't hunt alone.

[ It's difficult to explain how he can tell the difference between its cry and that of a human. The pitch and the reverberation—it holds a faint hollow note that indicates a more limited vocal range. Were that all he sensed, he'd have told Dion to turn around. No sense in becoming entangled with a pack of Ceknias. A sharp scent reaches him, though. Blood. And not that of another animal.

He sniffs the air again, then tips his head for Dion to turn left. ]

Edited 2024-01-30 22:49 (UTC)

[If Dion heard the warning, it did not pause his steps. His face is hard, his movements precise, as he steps towards the shadows of the trees. Unfamiliar ground to him, and all the more dangerous for it. Such a pampered life in Thorne leaves his knowledge of the world itself, and its threats, sincerely lacking, even if he has left the castle and read a wealth of tomes in the library.

As a soldier, he knows there is no comparison to be made reading of a threat versus facing it down.

His lance warms in his hand, the tip posed forward and to the side, ready for what the trail could offer to him. Despite his order prior, it does not surprise him when Geralt appears, with a shockingly quiet gait, and touches him. He stiffens, turning to him.] Creatures?

[He heard the cry of a human. Was it not? Or some sort of... mimic? It would not do to question Geralt's knowledge, especially if this is meant to be his forte.]

Then more of them shall fall. [His voice is even, quiet. With a nod, he follows behind Geralt, a step between them, with his attention behind them.] Can you hear whence they step?

[ When working, Geralt often goes alone. On the rare occasions he takes company, it's been Dean, Ciri. Jaskier. Before that, his brothers—Lambert, usually, or Eskel. None of whom bring much gravity to the situation. Dion's grim determination is...different.

His gaze flicks from one side to the other. He takes a cautious step forward, avoiding the twig on the ground. He can hear them. Hooves that crunch in the snow, but also—a wet noise as he draws closer. The squelch of torn meat.

They're feasting.

At the edge of the clearing, he stops short. The pack mills about in the distance. How well can Dion see through the darkness? Well enough to spot the dark red blood soaking into the powdered white? At the very least, he should be able to spot four pairs of illuminated eyes.

Geralt drops into a crouch behind the brush. Is it worth confronting them? These creatures are in their territory. Whoever they've caught for dinner, it's too late to save it. It won't be difficult for the wagon to move past unnoticed while the pack is preoccupied with its meal. But theirs is not the only transport that needs to go through this road.

He sighs. Here they are, then. ]

Watch the teeth. Do not stand behind them.

[Dion's expertise is hardly ground combat, but it isn't to say he was not trained in it extensively, as any proper dragoon should be. He may stand here without armor, but his grip on his lance is sure, and his body willing to offer its ether if he needs strength beyond it.

A dangerous pull, to be sure, when Bahamut still comes to him so distantly. Here, unlike in Featherhive, the dragon is silent in its cage. He does not rise to meet this opponent, even at the sound of another scream.

This time, the echo of it... something leaves him colder for the tone, the way it moves through the trees.

He has fought in darkness plenty. He cannot truly see, but there is enough illumination from the sky above them to see the eyes.

A single wisp of light seemingly forms itself, drifting through the air like a firefly. It pulses, sending enough small waves of light for Dion to map the terrain around them. Tight, close spaces, hardly fitting for lance combat... even if he is quite sure his lance would not be paused in a true swing by bark and wood.

There is blood staining the snow in one of the small pulses of light, but as they have gathered close and there is an acrid smell among the cod of the snow, it does not surprise him.

Whomsoever bled here, he intends not to leave them behind. Not now that he is ignorant no longer.

One the light gets close enough to startle the creatures, he sees an imprint through the dark of what they are. Something akin to horses, but much more predatory. Antelopes, he thinks, but... corrupted. Twisted. Their faces coating in blood, with curling teeth.]

I only need the space from above.

[Dion gives Geralt a nod, then shoots straight up -- landing deftly on a heft branch of the tree above them. On light feet does he leaps from one tree to the next, sending the light bursting into a surprisingly bright flash. Thence does his lance plummet to the ground, thrown from above, impaling one of the antelopes deftly through the throat, pinning it to the ground with a wet gurgle.

The beasts scream, but they do not run. Very well, then. An extermination they shall have.]

[ There are people who will not call Geralt subtle, and they'd be right under some circumstances. He has little patience for subtlety with people. Hunting is a different equation. Unlike Dion, he's a Witcher, not a soldier, and nothing makes that clearer than when the lancer sends a pulse of light without warning—fucking over the cover of darkness Geralt was using.

He sighs.

He'll take the distraction, though. May as well, since he can no longer sneak up on the herd. The creatures stop short at first, their glowing eyes piercing through the shadows. Not that most dangerous as far as beasts go, but they're quick. Geralt lingers at the edge. Waiting.

Then they scatter, twice as fast as any deer. He veers left. Chasing down these fucking things wasn't in his place for the night, but here he is. He sends a blast through the air ahead, striking a weakened branch. It collapses, blocking the Ceknias' path. He can sense another coming from the side. They look like prey, but they aren't—and he knows they are not fleeing. They're circling wide to box him in.

But he has one cornered. He wastes no time. His blade swings in an arc, removing its forelegs. Blood streaks over the snow. As it collapses forward, he takes its head for good measure. The glow fades from its eyes.

Now where the fuck is Dion? ]

[It seems their pause was only mere hesitance, not a lack of fear. Dion leaps down from the tree next to his lance, propping his boot against its throat as he wrenches his weapon free from its flesh. A second antelope comes at him, not fast enough to avoid his pirouette, slashing the lance's edge across this beast's legs; it crumples with a cry that sounds, horribly, like the wail from a human throat.

Dion leaves Geralt to his own devices; he is content, his blood flaring hot, among several of the creatures with his lance in hand. They circle him instead of fleeing; testament to their tenacity of predators, he realizes, combined with the gore staining their muzzles and fangs.

Certainly not the gentle, fearful antelopes he knew from the grassy knolls of Storm.

Dion moves around several of the herd, cutting another one down just as a third leaps in and closes vicious, carved fangs onto his arm. A happenstance it only bites down where there is pure, hard stone; the fangs break and the animal makes a grotesque scream, suddenly jerking away before he can slice across its throat. As his lance embeds in the stomach of one of the largest antelopes, another darts in, low to the ground, to close teeth around his thigh.

With a grunt of pain, he pulls his lance free once more and spins to slice straight through that one's legs. Two fallen to the ground, but living still with their wretched screams. Dion leaps back to take an assessment: the more he cuts down, the more appear from the dark. Certainly he has made a dent in them, and several have finally run.

So it was a scouting party, perhaps -- or more have come from the sound of their cries.

Very well. All the better. He summons more light, which sparks to life around him in a series of flares that appear like will o'wisps. Dion protects himself with his lance while the wisps grow in size, pulsating, until he sends the light out towards the remaining antelopes.

When his knee hits the ground, his other leg dribbling thick blood that soaks his trousers, the antelopes left around him have fallen, their fur charred black and eye sockets, now empty, smoking from the light that burned straight through them, from the inside out.

He has never felt the creep of petrification, but he can feel the burn of his aether. Ignoring the wound in his leg, he rolls up his sleeve to see the petrified skin has crept further down his forearm. Yet there remained plenty distance from his joint still.]

[ Like the ceknias, Geralt smells fresh blood the moment it hits the air. They dart away—disinterested in fighting their food when there's wounded prey nearby.

He follows them.

It isn't hard to find Dion, anyhow, when a constant burst of light announces his location. Scorched fur and burnt flesh fills Geralt's nostrils. The remaining pairs of glowing eyes greet him, advancing from the side towards Dion. They bare their curled teeth—before their entrails spill across the powdered snow.

He flicks the blood from his sword and stops a few feet from Dion. It's not the first time he's seen the odd petrifaction overtaking the man's limb. Perhaps it says something that Dion seems more concerned with it than the bite on his leg.

Geralt offers him a hand up. They've bandages on the horses. ] Did they enjoy the taste?

[ The beasts sure as hell tried to chew on him, though they didn't take as large a chunk as the unfortunate woman under the tree. From what he can tell, she's missing most of her face, her stomach, and a portion of her leg. Which—he'll alert the wolves travelling with them when he returns. Likely, they'll wish to bury their own. ]

Edited 2024-02-05 06:25 (UTC)

[Dion plants his lance in the ground once he thinks he hears more of the beasts... but he needn't have bothered. He can hear their bodies hit the snow, and Geralt comes into the small light around him, as one wisp remains by his side to not leave him in complete darkness.

The prince takes the offering, rising to his feet with only a slight wince. Hardly the worst wound he's taken, but still a painful one.]

Not the first bite. [He points, with his lance, to the one whose teeth broke on his arm. He rolls his sleeve back down, leaning some of his weight off the leg and onto his lance. (Terence would have been sure to give him an earful for being careless.)] I am like to think it shan't have complained about the second.

[It would have taken more of him, to be sure, given the chance.] They were far more agile than I expected. I must confess, I am more accustomed to fighting man than beast. [At least not beasts like this. Agile, lithe predators, moving like a pack of wolves, but more unsuspecting about it. With the cries of humans. It is for those reasons, he suspects, that woman fell victim to them.

Dion turns his attentions to the Witcher, looking him once over.] You are unharmed?

Edited 2024-02-05 06:33 (UTC)

[ His head cocks to the side, eyes following the lance towards the bloodied ceknias. He crouches down and nudges its head. Shattered tooth. Hm. So that's why Dion was examining his arm. Seems there are some advantages to turning into stone, a condition Geralt has never asked about. Not his business.

Still. He has to wonder what might've caused it. An ailment from birth? A curse that came later? Is it still spreading or has the Singularity in this sphere intervened? ]

Men do have duller teeth. [ He pushes to his feet and sheathes his sword. He's fine. Just scrapes and bruises that will fade by morning. ] We should return.

[ As long as Dion can make it back on his wounded leg. Geralt waits before moving off—not wanting his companion to hit the ground out of sheer stubbornness.

If the lancer is expecting a lecture, one doesn't come. Injuries happen. Especially when you're surrounded by carnivorous antelope you've never seen. He should've fucking known this would not be a simple transport. When is it ever? The wagon's safe, at least. Leaving the Lunae to guard it was for the best, he knows, though he expects they may want to retrieve the woman's body. ]

Edited 2024-02-05 17:09 (UTC)

[The joke is in very poor taste, yet it gets a sound that suspiciously sounds like a humorous snort from the prince, as he retrieves his lance, cleaning the gore from it using the grass as best he can.] So I have learned.

[He nods, using the lance to prop himself up as he rises. There is a wince with his steps, but it is hardly the worst injury he has sustained, especially when Bahamut has suffered the pain of lost limbs.

At least from Geralt, Dion expects nothing. They walk, and Geralt, at least, does not fully leave him behind. It is not for the first time he thinks of the healing magic he has seen at use in the Thorne castle... if he had such a power, such an injury would be mere trifle.

Yet his heart still balks at the idea. Especially the use of magic in service to himself. (Thancred's words ring hollow, yet true. What if it happens again, and you cannot control yourself?)]

I would do it myself, but... I do not want to leave her body further to scavengers. Will you retrieve her? I will return to the wagon and prepare our escort to move onwards.

[ Were Geralt to learn, he might've had a healing spell at his disposal, too. He has his own reasons for turning away the opportunity. It would be practical, but a Witcher practising as a mage, feels...mm. It's difficult to explain. He only knows that the notion sits uneasy within him. Shades of his mother. Shades of Vilgefortz insisting they could each be something more. Something neither mage nor Witcher.

He's survived this long with the training he has. With what he is. It's enough.

He nods towards the wagon as it draws closer. Like Dion, he doesn't want to leave her body there, either. Not if they can help it. ] Her people will look after her.

[ The wolves are swifter, and they will know what they wish to do with the body.

He informs the scout guarding the wagon of what they found. While the two Lunae leave for the woods, Geralt reaches for one of the saddlebags. Strips of cloth. Water. A tin of salve. It'll do until Dion can get the wound looked at closely. ]

Sit. [ He crouches down. It's not a suggestion. ] Let me see.

[Dion follows the line of his gaze, realizing... yes. The wolves would not be inclined to let a fellow rot either, especially that which attracts such beasts. He nods.] A fair point.

[Perhaps he does not wish to dirty himself any further.

He imagines the body will join the others on the wagon; that itself may have been enough to attract the beasts further up the road should they have continued without pause. The wagon, at least, seems unaffected, and once the wolves have been updated on the situation, a couple do leave the wagon to retrieve the corpse left behind, with a sheet tucked under one's arm to collect her remains.

They were scattered, after all. Some missing. A grisly sight, to be sure.

Dion cocks his head as he places his lance astride the wagon, his gait only somewhat slowed by the wound. He turns back to the Witcher, brows raised in abject surprise.

Being ordered by ordinary men is still such a... new experience.

Dion does sit, extending his leg, though there is a touch of hesitation in it. Not that he doubts the man's ability to deal with surface-level wounds; it is only now, as he sits, and the pain rockets up his leg, that he cannot wrench the memories of Terence on his knees, poultice in hand. There has not been another man to dress his wound in years upon years. Hardly another man has even laid a hand upon him.

Dion rolls up the leg of his trousers, now heartily stained, to reveal the blood that has dribbled down his leg and begun to dry, until the jagged holes of the wound itself are revealed. The skin is angry and red, and there is traces of saliva and gore that he is sure is not his own. It must have been one that had been feasting upon her.]

Disregarding your lack of manners... you are quick to offer aid. [He rests his hands on either side of him, the grip strangely tight.] Thank you, Geralt.

[ A soft snort escapes him at that. He eyes the wound, trying to determine if sewing it close would be worthwhile. They'll return soon—and Geralt knows any trained healer will undo his indelicate work the instant they can. ]

Nobody expects manners from a Witcher. [ His lips twist wryly. ] Your Highness.

[ There's a sense Geralt is all too aware Dion isn't accustomed to being treated as a common soldier, and that this has changed precisely zero things about Geralt's behaviour.

He wipes the gore clean, packs the salve into the holes (probably not pleasant), and shakes out the strip of cloth. Then he begins to wind it around Dion's leg. His touch is not the softest, but nor is it as rough as one might expect. His work is tidy, at least—the edges of the cloth neatly tucked in. It will suffice until Dion finds a healer at the castle's infirmary. Since the man is in Thorne, Geralt isn't concerned.

He rises and offers Dion a hand up. The wolves will return shortly. He glances at the moon. The snow continues to drift, covering the wagon and the horses with a thin white layer. They've lost time, but in a land without sun, it hardly makes a difference. ]

At least we've no need to worry about nightfall.

[While he may have found amusement in the way Geralt frames the title -- his proper title -- like a gentle needling. Now his grip tightens, and his smile that forms is only a polite one, as he looks past Geralt's shoulder as if to keep a watch.

There is nothing in Geralt's mannerisms he would mistake for one of Terence's. They are hardly alike, even in body. It is the scenario, a man on his knees caring to the prince's wounds. Your Highness. My prince.]

I know not which to expect from a Witcher quite yet. [But there is an addendum there: yet I am learning. A surprising amount of care for such a taciturn soldier. He is not gentle, yet is firm the amount the wound calls for. Dion is quiet, only wincing with a snarl to his nose.

He asks not which gave him away -- Your Highness -- because it matters little. The title has no meaning, and he knows his mannerisms to one with experience may be enough to suffice. He does not bother to dissuade Geralt thinking otherwise; he only takes the Witcher's hand to stand, testing his weight on the leg now the wound does not bleed freely. Painful, but manageable. As all wounds must be on the field.]

We have plenty of lights to guide our way. [Here a small note of humour returns.] Though I have learned you need such things little.

[ The truth is, Dion had not explicitly given himself away, beyond his noble heritage. He could have been a baron, a viscount, a duke. A minor lord. But Your Highness is both a joke and a way to test the waters—and Dion's reaction tells him enough.

So he's right. A prince or a king. Interesting.

He asks no further. ]

I don't. [ He'll confirm that much. ] You can expect that, too.

[ He reaches for the horse he was riding before the interruption. When the wolves return with the woman's body, Geralt mounts. They continue onward; the snow falls thicker as they travel northward. As fortune would have it, no more trouble awaits them—which is good. Geralt's had more than enough excitement tonight. ]

Edited 2024-02-20 06:47 (UTC)

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[ CLOSED ] talon and tooth

tw: suicidal ideation

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wrap 🎀