[ CLOSED ] eyes black, big paws

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: March
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Catch-all
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon; nsfw marked.


and it's poison in his blood;
we took you right from your mother's womb;

discontinued | quantifies | starters below.

Comments

— ◈ steve rogers.

[gynvael]

[ Missing artifacts, mysterious voices, now sudden storms. What next?

Not another involuntary trip to the mines, he hopes. Suppose they'll find out. Since he's one of the few who can travel in these conditions, Geralt has agreed to accompany Steve. The dust is thick, but for him, the discomfort is simply that: discomfort. Besides, after the human-like machine (or machine-like human) he found in the desert last month, he's equally concerned about where the steel beast has gotten to. And what the Free Cities might be learning from it.

He gathers his swords, a few elixirs, his cloak. Roach complains as he leads her through Aquila's portal. The city's normally bustling markets are virtually bare, the streets empty. The wind is hot and biting. It does not help the churning in his stomach.

Ducking under a shaking awning, he leans on his horse. He takes a moment to keep his breakfast from regurgitating over Roach's hooves. Why do the fucking portals feel worse than usual? He swears it must be the Singularity's instability—or whatever presence has provoked the monolith.

Under the dark clouds and streaks of lightning, the sun climbing the horizon is barely visible. Geralt's vision extends only a few feet ahead; everything beyond is a slurry of brown. Steve's approach is difficult to distinguish through the howling wind, and he reaches loosely for his sword. Just on the chance those are not human footsteps. (The queasiness has not yet abated.) ]

[assembles]

[ It's hard to know just yet if this is the worst time to head out and see what's in the mountains, or the best. Steve leans toward the latter, if only because it means the chance of them actually being noticed by whoever might be out there is slim to none. Even he can barely see five feet in front of him. When Geralt agreed to make the trip even in these conditions, claiming that he had the knowledge and experience to endure the weather, that had settled it.

Now or never.

Steve makes sure to come prepared, though. It's not like super-soldier eyes are immune to dust and sand being blown into them, and so he acquires a pair of heavy-duty goggles and a lightweight hooded cloak to help weather the whipped-up storm. He's already got plenty of desert-specific gear for whenever he ventures out of the city, so these additional items help him to put together a reasonable outfit for the hike.

It's one of the few times he's missed his uniform, heavy-duty and with a few bells and whistles to make his life easier. But this will do.

They agreed to meet in Aquila, and Steve opts to rent a horse there rather than drag one through the portal. Still, he knows Geralt is specific about his horse, so when he lands in the blown-over city and finds the man clutching the reins of said mount, he isn't surprised.

The visibility is horrendous, and yet he's somehow still surprised when Geralt grabs for his sword as he approaches. Steve draws his hands up in front of him immediately. ]

Hey — it's me.

[ He does step just a tad differently than a normal human, to be fair, unnaturally light on his feet despite his build. ]

[gynvael]

[ He releases his grip on his sword. This is likely the first time Steve will see Geralt with any sort of eye wear; for someone unused to such things, it feels distracting and limiting, but the blowing sand is unrelenting. Even Roach is wearing an eye mask. ]

Fine weather for travel.

[ He looks towards the obscured horizon and sighs. His desire to embark on this investigation is low, but he can't very well ignore what he knows. Bracing a hand against Roach's saddle, he hops on. At least she's a desert breed, light and quick on her feet over the sand. He can't imagine the horses he rode on the Continent faring well in these conditions.

A glance over his shoulder tells him Steve is following close behind. ] You said they were located northward?

[ Hardly the most precise description, but it'll have to do. He can't expect Steve to have gotten any real detail out of the soldiers. Chances are, they aren't privy to that information themselves. Everything about the Free Cities is buried in layers of secrecy; the more he uncovers, the more uneasy he feels. It rings too close to a mage's predilection for experimenting with things they should not. ]

[assembles]

[ It's good that Roach has eye wear, frankly. Steve isn't sure that anyone's eyes could withstand the constant blow of dust and sand, and the last thing they want is a torn retina or something. So he's glad to see it.

At Geralt's dry comment, Steve barks out a laugh. ] Yeah, real picturesque.

[ For now Steve walks at Geralt's side as he rides, but they're moving in the direction of one of the stables that he mapped out. He's pretty sure he's going to have to pay extra to rent a horse in these conditions, for good reason, but he's prepared for that too. ]

Yeah, in the mountain range north of here. That's really all they could tell me.

[ He has to raise his voice to be heard over the deafening wind, but the good news is that no one else is even out here to hear their conversation. Either way, Steve had confirmed with Geralt that he'd traveled that way at least once before, plus he's aware of the threat that the Thunderjaw presents. He was really the only option to ask along on this trek.

It isn't long before they pass the stables near the edge of the city, and Steve lifts a hand to grab Geralt's attention. ]

I'll be right back.

[ It takes a bit of charm and a hefty amount of coin, but a short time later he comes out on horseback, saddled up and ready to go. Or as ready as he can be, given the circumstances. ]

[gynvael]

[ Geralt slows to a stop while Steve does what he needs. Roach paws the ground nervously before he soothes his mare. It isn't merely the dust; the lightning above would unsettle anyone, and none more so than a horse. He hasn't stepped into the Badlands, but he suspects even the beasts out there might've taken cover in their nests.

And unlike usual, the birds are absent. Hiding.

When Steve emerges, Geralt gives the steed he's chosen a once-over, decides the horse is suitable, and continues alongside him. Between the drumming winds and Geralt's habit of saying very little, most of the ride is in silence until they reach the foot of the northern mountains.

He glances up the jagged slopes, then slides off of Roach. Best to go on foot from here. He shoulders his sword. Tendrils of lightning spark like roots through the heavy clouds. He isn't eager to face what the winds will be like as they climb higher. As soon as Steve joins him, Geralt nods towards the rocky pathway, an indication for Steve to take the lead. Something tells him Steve has a better sense of what they're looking for. ]

— ◈ sam winchester.

[gynvael]

Ironically, the storms are what bring him to the Horizon more often than usual. Where he normally enters to only for a meeting or as a brief reprieve from the scorching heat—less the case in early spring—he now watches for any further...peculiarities.

He finds it in the mud that now covers his mountainside. The rapidly melting snow has turned the grounds into muck. Efforts to bring back the frost has only resulted in heavy rains that further flooded the damn place, washing sun-bleached skeletal remains and blooming wyvern tails down the slope. And in the midst of those muddied purple flowers, he glimpses an intruder. A rose, wilted and yet undamaged by the weather.

His fingers hover over the bloom. He knows what he will find inside the shrivelled petals even before he picks up the rose. A moth. Desiccated and frozen in time. He buried it months ago. What the fuck is it doing back here?

He rotates the stem between his fingers, frowning, wondering if there is another presence coming, another force they can't predict.

Then footsteps—a squelch instead of the crisp crunch over snow. Geralt looks up. Hm. That's not a visitor he'd expect to see. Crouched in the wet grass, he cocks his head to the side as he waits for the other Winchester to speak first.

[outwear]

"This isn't what I was expecting," Sam says, cutting the silence between them. Nature calls from all around, plants and animals bringing life that's familiar, but not-quite-real, like everything else: The air, the earth, the white-haired man inspecting his own grounds, even Sam as an invader in this place (but, through the grace of his brother and Geralt's patience, welcome despite this).

He often wanders, but this is the first chance he's taken towards this connection beyond the convenient or expected. By the look of his boots — the mud and the scuffs — he's taken the long way to get here. The sun's warmed the high points of his face and the wind's swept his hair, but the freedom of mind has eluded him regardless, like a wraith.

(Has he ever lived a life settled? The discomfort of being unsettled is like a warm throw, a soft quilt made of disappointment that doesn't even belong to Sam. The stitching is still tight, no threat of unraveling for him anytime soon. It's only lately he's really bothered to try...)

Crouching as well, he looks over the area Geralt is inspecting. A means to an end, mostly.

"A big melt recently?" Obvious, but he can see the signs and hopes to acknowledge quietly the changes happening around them. It's part of the reason he's here, anyway.

[gynvael]

Kaer Morhen carries a foreboding air that suggests all who set foot on its grounds is an outsider. Even Jaskier seldom visits, and Yennefer has entered once, maybe twice. The nature of the fortress' isolated walls and insular occupants. Sticky brown puddles and crackling lightning don't make it any more welcoming.

After a moment, Geralt rises. He sets the wilted rose aside. It'll reappear where it will later, he expects. These things usually do.

"Seems so," he replies simply. His gaze roams over Sam for a moment. Dean had mentioned his brother returning; Geralt is genuinely glad for his friend, but he and Sam have never been on the steadiest footing. It isn't uneasiness, exactly. A lack of familiarity more than anything—and maybe a sense of indifference on Geralt's part that makes it clear the camaraderie he shares with Sam's brother is an exception, not the rule.

Which means he doesn't bother with questions of how Sam is doing in Solvunn or if Sam has found his own Horizon similarly upturned.

"You came to speak to me?" Or had Sam wandered through those broken gates without realizing who the space belonged to?

[outwear]

Had he come to speak with Geralt? Sam doesn't particularly feel as if that had been his intetion when he'd set out, but as with so many other things, he's found himself in pursuit of a purpose without even realizing. Now that he's here, Sam can say for certain that it was curiosity about Geralt that's landed him here.

"Yeah, why not," he reasons, his face turned into the blowing wind. It lacks the necessary nonchalance to signify the same sort of connection he might share with Dean, but Sam is trying. When it comes to Geralt, much like Benny, the difficulty comes in knowing (one way or another) what's best for his brother. As it stands, the Witcher's influence has certainly provided more positive influence than Sam's, especially as of late.

Of course, no conversation can start that way, so Sam lets his curiosity lead him. "This is where you're from? It's nice." The deep breath he takes in reminds him of home, but only in the most minor ways, like a whiff of something familiar. "Has my brother claimed a room yet? He—" Sam laughs, shaking his head. "He goes all-in for the family gig."

[gynvael]

Nice has Geralt tilting his head. Not the word he'd use—especially as it is now—but he lets the comment pass without remark. Roach snorts from inside her stall, unhappy with the weather.

"It's where I was raised." A minor distinction, but significant. He isn't from anywhere. One could argue that if Kaer Morhen is home, then that's his place of origin. For him, it isn't so simple.

There's the smallest pause when Sam brings up family. Geralt looks thoughtful. For a moment, it seems he might even answer. He doesn't. Instead, he motions for Sam to follow him inside. It's fucking wet out here, and he isn't keen on the constant lightning.

The truth is, Dean only visits on rare occasions. Geralt often goes to the bunker instead. And though he has offered Dean a place in the temple beneath, Kaer Morhen is something else, carved so deeply by the past that it does not have a place for anyone else. Not like that. Ciri remains the sole exception in hundreds of years.

The heavy doors swing shut. The braziers are lit with blazing fires. Geralt shrugs off his cloak, draping it over the side of a long table, littered with scorch marks and haphazard gouges.

Gentle curiosity might be the way to proceed for most, but Geralt is not most. He swings his leg over a rough-hewn bench.

"What did you want to discuss?"

— ◈ dean.

[gynvael]

[ Lightning streaks like spiderwebs across the Horizon's blank sky. Part of him wonders if this place might ever collapse. Cave under the weight of the Summoned who command it, or the magical anomalies that seem to strike every few months.

He isn't here to investigate, though. Not exactly. He's made his rounds, examined a few domains, found little that could be done except wait to see if the tempest will pass. In the meantime, he's decided to speak to Dean. Who is, as far as he knows, not in Cadens, though he has not asked Dean where he's gone. Seemed simpler to arrange a meeting here. Aside from the turbulent weather, it doesn't seem to be behaving dangerously.

Yet.

As usual, he arrives on his motorbike. Mud sticks to the tires, its chrome body. The melting snow in Kaer Morhen has turned to muck; thundering rains haven't helped matters. Likely, the only reason his bike wasn't trapped is because it's the Horizon and Geralt made a conscious effort not to sink into the quagmire.

As for the conditions he'll find at Dean's bunker—that remains to be seen. ]

[righteously]

( The weather outside of the Roadhouse is a similar stormy, ominous affair as it is in the rest of the Horizon, only it's Midwest Edition. The clouds are thick and dark, the winds whip too hard, too fast. Everything from the bending of the Purgatory trees to the banging shutters on the windows hints at an oncoming tornado. As such, Dean's moved his Baby from the parking lot down to the underground parking garage in the bunker underneath — it's here he tells Geralt to meet him.

When he arrives, Dean'll already be under the hood — with a work light on a hook hanging from the clasp above it, to compensate for the rolling power flickers that seem to rock through the bunker every few minutes. One hits shortly after Geralt rolls in, casting the garage into an eerie, dim blackness outside of that little island of light shining from the Impala.

He takes a beat to shoot a glance up at the ceiling bulbs before nodding his greeting to Geralt. )

That's a bold move, riding that thing through all that-

( A vague gesture in the general direction of outside; weather. )

You want some mud tires for it?

( Have they gone over tire types yet? They've put a hell of a dent in Geralt's mechanic knowledge over the last couple years, he's starting to lose track. )

[gynvael]

[ The underground is an area Geralt rarely enters unless beckoned; his natural preference is the open sky, and the weather in Dean's space is usually pleasant. Now, the winds are howling, the clouds a dark gloom. Debris tumbles past him as he rides downward.

He cuts the engine. ] Seemed easier to manage than a skittish mare.

[ Horses, thunderous lightning, and muddy bogs do not mix. Likely, they don't mix well with the bike, either, but Geralt knows very little about how these machines behave under various conditions and as a result, they simply...work. Without interference.

For instance, categories of tires. A nugget of wisdom Dean has not imparted on him.

The lights flicker again. Geralt approaches. A chest sits nearby—a cooler—and he helps himself to a bottle. ]

You've time to spare today. [ An observation and a question rolled in one. ] Resting before you find more trouble?

[righteously]

( There's a thoughtful little moment of consideration and then concession — yeah, okay, fair enough. Motorcycle's definitely a step up from horse considering the weather.

Then again, literally all of it's irrelevant because it's imaginary and they could just straight-up teleport or whatever, but he's team Horizon Reality Decisions, so they'll just not acknowledge that.

Instead, he ambles his way over toward one of the supply closet doors that's totally always been there this entire time, and bounces down a hefty pair of mud tires to roll toward Geralt's bike. If they've got nothing better to do, might as well swap 'em. )

Cas is keeping watch. We're grounded. Dust storms started kicking in bad after we were already about a week out into the Badlands. We haven't been able to move in practically a whole damn day.

( Because trying to navigate in that visibility out there? Impossible. )

[gynvael]

[ One eyebrow lifts. Geralt plants his hand on one of the tires as it rolls towards him. ]

What brought you out?

[ He can't recall Dean leaving so early in the month for a contract except for a lengthier trip. Unfortunate, being trapped out there. Normally a sandstorm will pass within a few hours, but this one appears to stir intermittently, never quite fully relenting.

He slides the stand under the front of the bike. Like everything in the Horizon, there's no true purpose for changing tires, but it gives them something to do while they talk. The storm means Geralt hasn't much he can do, either. He's running out of shelves to fix. ]

— ◈ lord john.

[gynvael]

[ Were it not for Nocwich's abrupt closure, he'd have told John to meet him at the Square. He prefers his physical connections to be physical. Still, he's taken his share of pleasure in the Horizon; it comes with its advantages. So here he is. Geralt knows what he wants. No reason to sit on his hands when he can simply. Show up.

Besides, something tells him he ought to spare John the apprehension of waiting for word after they were interrupted.

The lightning makes Roach skittish. He could calm her, but it's simpler to ride a machine devoid of thoughts and fears. He mounts the motorbike, swinging it around the curve of the Horizon's crater. There's no guarantee John is actually here, but it doesn't matter. He can return later—or indulge in the liquor.

As it turns out, the lamps through the windows are lit. Geralt plants one foot on the ground as he rolls to a stop outside the building. The engine's rumble is difficult to miss. ]

[iustise]

[John sits at the desk he has claimed for his own at the Beefsteak -- he had never had his "own" desk at the club, but since he had technically built this place from his memory of the original and has already taken certain other, larger liberties, he does not feel that laying such a claim on certain pieces of furniture or indeed, rooms of the establishment is much of a stretch of the imagination. Before him sits a piece of paper and a quill. He understands that such things are not needed to draft a message that one sends from one mind to another, but even so, old habits die hard.

He understands as well that there were reasons, and very sound ones, which had interrupted the moment they had found themselves in, that evening in the Feasting Quarters. The moment had passed and there had been important business to attend to, Geralt running off and throwing himself into all sorts of danger and John...

Well. He had helped, to some degree, but there had been less danger involved, and at the end of the day he had mostly been left feeling: Exposed. Uncertain. Unresolved. There had been a tension between them allowed to build that had withered once they'd gotten down to other business and John finds himself wondering... A great many things, which leads him to where he finds himself, sat before this blank piece of paper, quill in hand, staring blankly out the window at the stormy sky beyond. Listening to the growl of thunder growing in the distance.

...no. Not thunder. Closer to hand, and loud enough that John pushes himself up from his desk, crossing the hall toward the front door to investigate the source of the noise.

He still can't say he understands what he's looking at once he's seeing it, but he knows it's Geralt sat astride it, which is a welcome sight.]

That's quite the machine you have.

[gynvael]

[ John emerges looking put-together, as usual. Geralt, meanwhile, has a thick layer of mud caked on his boots; his hair is damp from the rains northeast of the Horizon, and several strands have come loose from the leather cord at the back of his head. A worn cloak is tossed over his shoulders.

He lifts an eyebrow in greeting. ] I'd offer a ride, but the weather's shit.

[ Thunder claps overhead. Next time, maybe. His gaze roams over John before he says without preamble: ]

We were interrupted. [ He swings off the bike and steps towards the entrance where John is peering out. ] In Ikorr.

[ Whether John is interested in resuming where they left is another matter. He won't take it personally if the other's changed his mind—though he doesn't think John has. ]

[iustise]

[John's heart gives a funny lurch in his chest. For the fact that Geralt is here. That he has come, without prompting, and this is the first thing he says. That it has been on his mind as well. Their kiss. The promise of what might have been to come.]

We were.

[A simple fact, but there is weight to it as well. John regards the other man carefully, wetting his lips as he takes in the measure of him. Weighing his options before he steps back, holding the door open for him to enter.

An invitation.]

You should come inside. Dry off.

[Among other things...]

[gynvael]

[ He takes the invitation. As much as he disliked the interruption, the quiet privacy is preferable. And there are more plush surfaces here than on the festival streets.

His shoulder brushes lightly against John's as he passes through. He lowers the hood of his cloak. The smell of liquor and aged wood permeates the air. He's only set foot in this place once, but something about it speaks to him.

Maybe it's to do with John's fondness of it. A warmth that bleeds into the atmosphere. ]

I think, [ he begins, slow and deliberate, ] you should show me where I can dry off.

closed.

[cointosser]

[It is an inexplicable, ungodly hour in the morning, with the winds still blowing fierce and the sky still dark, where a crash echoes through the house. After the clatter, there is silence. Relatively. There is a small, echoing rustle in the corner, where one of Jaskier's latest acquisitions -- a vase -- has been placed. Recently excavated and carefully cleaned, it is, possibly, one of a kind.

And it is wobbling precariously.

Another silence, and then what could only be called a melancholy sound, spoken from a soft beak:

Hoooooooooooo...

The vase wobbles a second time, followed by an even more dismal hoot.

This is possibly the worst moment of Jaskier's life. Why on earth did they make the insides of this vase so fucking slippery? Is this how the bard's life ends? Not with a bang, but with a whimpered hoot? Shall he spend the rest of his days at the bottom of this vase, knowing if he turns back into a man it will either break his neck or shatter?

His hoot this time is much more plaintive, large eyes staring upfrom the bottom of the vase.]

[gynvael]

[ The hour is late when Geralt returns home. His cloak is heavy with dust. Sand clings to his hair. He wants nothing more than to sink into a warm bath and dig the grit out of his eyes, his nose, the back of his throat. It's hardly his first sandstorm—they strike the wastelands regularly—but out there, he can take shelter in a cave. The storm will pass, as they all do. Except this one shows no sign of passing, not for any length of time.

He has one gloved hand on the door when a rattle from above cuts through the howling wind. Geralt looks up. Jaskier? No cursing or muttering comes. Instead, a barely audible hoot drifts downward.

That answers his question.

Another pathetic hoot greets him when he steps onto the roof. He takes a second to identify where it's from, reaches into the vase (when did they get that?), and extracts a small wide-eyed owl. A new shape. And yet, not a single ounce larger than the others.

He holds Jaskier up to eye-level. ] Exploring the depths of pottery?

[cointosser]

[His hoots grow more frenzied as he hears footsteps approaching (who the hell is on their roof at this time of night? An assassin?!) only to startle at a giant hand entering the vase.

It scoops him up only to face him with Geralt. His stuttering heart doesn't entirely calm as he breathes too fast and too deeply.]

Why must you insist on picking me up in the most undignified of ways! [He fluffs his feathers up, folding his wings in close against his body. His large eyes cut across Geralt's face, taking him in with long, slow blinks.] Why do you seem so big? This was supposed to be a larger bird!

[He thinks. He's fairly sure. When he read of the owl, it sounded... intimidating.

Oh. Hell.]

[gynvael]

[ How else is he to pick up a bird? Jaskier fits in his hand; it's the simplest solution. Though what would Jaskier have done had Geralt not returned when he did? Stayed there all night? Squawk until someone heard?

His brows draw together. A larger bird. Mm-hm.

Geralt carries his friend inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. No need to let in more sand; they've plenty of it all over the rug. He sets Jaskier down on the table, then goes in search of a drink. The cabinets are well-stocked. It's been some time, he thinks, since the days where they counted out every copper.

He pulls the nearest jug off the shelf, sniffs it, and pours. ] If only Philippa Eilhart could see you now.

[ Jaskier is, at best, a third of the size of a large owl. Something the bard may realize when he puts the jug down next to the puff of feathers. For comparison. ]

[cointosser]

[He is dimly realizing that, somehow, this is even smaller than the kestrel. He fits inside Geralt's hand without even a tail feather sticking out beyond it. He gives an undignified hoot -- though in this form, it still sounds like a squawk -- once released, fluffing up the feathers of his wings and body until they smooth down again where he wants them.

He looks down, stretching out a leg. Oh. Oh, that's freaky. He quickly tucks it back underneath him again.

He's starting to realize owls are actually incredibly off-putting. Or maybe he has an owl phobia, all things considered. He did have an owl try to take his eyes out more than once...

He fluffs again, loosing sand from his feathers. Ugh. Well, at least it's better than having it down his trousers.]

She should be jealous! I make a far better owl than her, don't I? I don't care how bloody big she was. Too big if, you ask me. She tried taking my scalp off more than once.

[Jaskier notices nothing, but he certainly moves away from sitting next to the stupid jug.]