[ CATCH-ALL ] you're not what a hero looks like

[wiedzminka]

Who: Ciri & OPEN
When: throughout March
Where: Free Cities
What: Helping out around town, dealing with the sandstorms, the general vibes after what went down in Ikorr, and some personal problems of the unexpected plant monsters variety.
Warnings: will add as needed!



pretty little flower,
won't you sit back down and go play nice?

OPEN & CLOSED STARTERS BELOW.
DM me @ lenafish or belleteyn to plot!

Comments

[wiedzminka]

[ It's a good thing they're both quick on the uptake. Jaskier pops out of his office just in time to see Mog flapping and biting at Ciri's hand when she makes a grab for him, nearly catching his wing before he squeezes past her through the crack in the door she hasn't been able to fully close. ]

The wind threw it open-- I think the latch is broken. [ She manages breathlessly, still shocked by how quickly both the stupid animals made the worst possible choices. If they were afraid of the sudden noise and wind, why go into it?

Shitty little dumbasses.

Jaskier's already running out, and Ciri spends only enough time to grab her own cloak off the peg by the door, and the mask beside it, while Geralt joins her. ]

[gynvael]

[ Chaos at its finest.

Geralt watches Ciri and Jaskier burst out the door. He trails behind instead, studying the direction of the wind before he continues on. Neither of them are especially large—the animals, that is—so it's unlikely they can move against the gale's temper.

Should have kept them in the cellar until the storms passed.

He catches up to Jaskier first. ] Are your magic birds immune to the winds?

[cointosser]

[Unfortunately -- and Jaskier completely has no idea where he picked this up form -- Mog has a tendency to run right into the danger when he's frightened of it. One could romanticize that perhaps his little gryphon fears for his friend, whom he probably thinks of eating on a regular basis, but it is not the truth.

Sometimes, his gryphon is a complete idiot.

Which he did not pick up from his father --]

What? [He holds a hand over his eyes, shielding them from wind and sand now, tightening the hood around him. He squints up at Geralt, then around them. Can't the Witcher just follow the scent of fish breath?] The sharper-winged ones, I think they could be. Do you have an idea of direction?

[As he asks, he does weave his magic to make his birds: several shimmering, blue-tinged falcons that gather on his shoulder.]

[wiedzminka]

[ Considering she'd failed to close the door in time when it burst open and couldn't contain either of the creatures, even though Mog had been right in her grasp, Ciri can't help but feel heart-sinkingly responsible for this. If either of them get hurt, or worse--

She fumbles with the goggle straps, getting them on while she runs ahead a bit, then circles back. At least with all the gear, it's hard to see her face. ]

I know which way they bolted first-- [ She gestures vaguely. ] But if they're scared and running mindlessly, who knows? Hopefully they decided to hide instead of going far...

[gynvael]

[ Unfortunately, they are in the city, and tracking through the smells of an overcrowded town is much different than tracking prey through the open wilds.

He pauses, turning to wait for Ciri. She's worried, of course. He nods once. ] We'll find them.

[ He squints through the curtain of sand. He can see barely five fucking feet ahead. Both Mog and Coram are feline creatures at heart, and he expects they will try to shelter instead of fleeing aimlessly in the open. There's a home away from home for them.

May as well start there. ]

They might've run to the shop. [ Jaskier's plant shop, that is. ] More corners to hide in.

[cointosser]

It won't be entirely mindless. [His hand rests on Ciri's arm as he catches up with her, the falcons flying off in every direction they can manage with the wind whipping about. He doesn't need a connection with them to know they're already quite cross with him for sending them out into this storm.

His magic's always had a bit of an attitude.

But better than him doing it himself, considering 1) he's already been stuck in a pot this week and 2) he can't see shit.]

Shit. There's an idea. They've both been, and there's a door in the back they slip through. Well, come on! I've got the birds looking otherwise.

[He rushes off towards the shop, already going through several jingling keys on a ring as he goes. For a moment, he swears he sees paw prints in the sand blown in from the winds.]

[wiedzminka]

[ That is an idea. The hope of it already feels like a relief, even if a preemptive one. Ciri nods, taking off after Jaskier. ]

If they're smart, that'll be the best place to go and hide.

Then again, if they were smart, they wouldn't have run outside. [ She groans, half to herself. ]

[gynvael]

[ He lets Jaskier take the lead. Coram, he worries for less. Despite its size, it's native to the desert. Mog, on the other hand, has been transported from the thick northern forests, domesticated, and is—as far as he knows—not bred to survive in this environment.

The door opens. Geralt grabs Jaskier's arm to keep him from going further. He steps over the threshold instead, silent, scanning the shop's interior. In here, the wind doesn't reach; a trail of tiny gryphon tracks travels around a shelf towards the back room.

Hm.

Geralt moves in a flash—snatching up a yowling Mog by the scruff. Its wings flap pathetically. ]

[cointosser]

[For once, Jaskier will not rise to defend Mog's level of intelligence. Now that the wind is blowing gritty sand into his face and hair, he's much less inclined to be kind about his gryphon, the little shit.

He may, however, cry with relief if he is found unharmed. Maybe. When very far from Geralt's hearing or vision.

Jaskier gets the door open with minimal fumbling, but stops automatically in his tracks once Geralt grabs him. Even goes silent, too, but for the pounding of his heart. The store is quiet inside; he's sent Quille to an inn until the storm's over, and he hasn't had energy to open it himself with all the commotion from the storms. The building creaks from the pressure of the wind, but the plants inside still grow as safely as ever.

There!]

Mog! You horrible shit! You tiny ass! [Jaskier grabs him, and for once in his life, does not berate Geralt for manhandling him. Mog is a shaking, terrified thing in his grip, attempting to run away once again, but Jaskier locks him against his chest and tucks his wing in tight.] You are so lucky I am not in the market for a gryphon feather hat.

[He shakes the gryphon a little.] Now where is Coram, you mongrel?

[Mog's response is a plaintive bird cry and is not helpful in the least.]