[ CLOSED ] my skin peels off like paint

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: April Pre-event
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: In the aftermath of Nero's death
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon.


can't you hear that scratching?
there's something at the door;

discontinued | quantifies | starters below.

Comments

— ◈ clive.

[gynvael]

[ The glade is where Geralt often seeks refuge away from Kaer Morhen. Its blooming flowers and trickling stream remind him of the forests from the Continent. The kind of lushness he's not seen in far too long now that Cadens has become home.

When he arrives, much of the greenery is washed away by thick mud. No surprise. The storms have overtaken everyone's spaces. He finds Moglad facedown in the filthy dirt, picks up the moogle, and sends it off with the. Other one. Who carries its friend away with startling care.

Fuck knows why Geralt bothers to restore the glade. The storm will only swallow it up once more after he leaves. But it gives him something to do. Something to take his mind off the shit. He returns the bushes, regrows patches of grass, cleans the fallen debris off the ground. It looks not much better by the end of the hour, but that isn't the point. Eventually, he retires beneath the sheltering leaves of Bleobheris.

He did not bring it with him. It doesn't matter. The sword Nero left him at Yuletide appears in his hands as though it were there from the beginning. He runs his thumb over the crack in the blade. Lightning flickers overhead.

He should have seen it coming. Perhaps a part of him had. ]

[flagrates]

[ Distraction comes in many forms; for some, it's revelry and drink, for others violence and war, and for yet others, books and tales, stories of heroes long gone or long adored. In his youth, Clive had turned to books and his rookery, the one place he could go to get away from his failure at being the son his parents needed him to be. But the rookery holds no solace for him right now. Joshua's presence is felt in the run down building, and Clive isn't sure how it all works, but he wonders if the heavy rain and flooded beach are a result of his sorrow at his brother's leaving.

So he finds something else: his pending wedding to Jill. He wants to speak to Jaskier about the vows, the music, anything to keep his mind from crawling into the darkness it's sat in for the past few days. He still has Jill. He still has Dion. He still has Geralt and Jaskier and Hilda and Dan Heng. He isn't alone.

But Founder take him, it hurts.

He steps through into Jaskier's domain, pausing when he realizes it's storming here, too, and he frowns. Is he bringing it here? But he continues in further, finally arriving at Bleobheris, his eyebrows rising as he sees Geralt as the lightning above flashes. Clive tips his face towards the sky for a moment, the scent of cigars faint on the breeze, and he raises his hand in a wave as he approaches Geralt, coming to a stop just under the branches. ]

Didn't think I'd see you here.

[gynvael]

[ Footsteps that don't belong to Jaskier draw his attention. Geralt tilts his head, then blinks. He shouldn't be surprised Jaskier is familiar with Clive—and in a way, he isn't—but he can admit this wasn't the first face that came to mind.

His gaze roams over the other man for a moment. He can't tell if the weight in the air is from him or Clive.

Maybe this fucking weather isn't helping. ]

I could say the same. [ A beat, and then he sets down the cracked sword. ] Looking for the bard?

[ Clive did speak of being wedded soon when they were in Ikorr; now that he realizes the two are familiar, he would wager anything Jaskier offered to perform at the ceremony. At least there remain some bright spots. ]

[flagrates]

I am.

[ But he doesn't move to keep looking — his eyes are lingering on the sword, an eyebrow raised. ]

What happened to the blade?

[ He ducks down as he moves to sit under the branches, across from Geralt. Anything for a distraction. ]

[gynvael]

[ Clive sits with him, and Geralt finds he doesn't mind despite having come here for solitude. He's quiet for a moment. It doesn't feel like his story to tell. But what does it matter anymore? ]

He said it belonged to his brother. Kept it even after he broke it. He gave it to me this winter.

[ For reasons Geralt understands, but hasn't yet said. Not right now. He knows what he meant to Nero, and he knows what Nero meant to him.

He's not sure how much of that he wants to acknowledge out loud. ]

I was prone to the same. [ Breaking things, he means. ] When I was a boy.

[flagrates]

[ It’s never been his way to pry; Geralt will tell him who he means in time or he won’t, but Clive has learned enough in his thirty plus years that listening can mean more to someone than asking questions. Especially for someone like Geralt and himself. ]

Doesn’t look like an easy sword to break, [ he says after a moment, leaning back and looking up into the branches. ]

I think it’s the nature of boys to break things, isn’t it? [ He looks at Geralt, giving a half hearted smile. ] Was it sword training?

[gynvael]

[ He hums. No. It doesn't. Nero was not exactly of average strength—a hunter even Geralt could not keep up with. There is a childish part of him that can't help thinking it's unfair—that death should claim the sturdiest of them.

But he knows better than to believe any it them indestructible. ]

No. Learning Signs. The magic we use. [ He looks over, contemplating. He can tell Clive senses something isn't right, and the truth is, Geralt does not particularly feel the need to hide that. Nor that he senses the same in return. ]

Storms interrupting your wedding plans?

— ◈ nadine.

[gynvael]

[ When there's a lull in the storm, Geralt gathers his cloak and takes the opportunity to get the fuck out of the house. Irritating, that he still can't ride the way he wants to. As much as he wants to not give a shit and do so anyhow, he has Roach to consider. She deserves the comfort of her stable, sheltered from the dust.

Nadine's newly opened clinic isn't far, though. Besides, the endless lightning, the constant shift in the air's pressure, has been bothering his leg. He may as well see if she has something stronger in her stores. Not as if he'll be hunting any time soon.

The last time he was inside the clinic, the floors and shelves were covered in boxes. This is the first he's seen it unpacked, decorated. It's nice.

He shuts the door quickly to keep out the sand. The hour is early, but he isn't surprised to find Nadine about. ]

Quaint. [ He reaches out to help her with a stack of supplies. ] It's finished?

[nadine_he_loves]

Almost!

[Nadine turns to greet Geralt as he comes to help, offering a tired but honest smile.]

Just have to finish putting out the rest of the stock. It's two stories, so I can put a lot more out at once.

[But other than that, it's done. Everything is painted. Decorations have been put up. The wooden sign hanging out front reads 'Salves & Stitches Apothecary'. Plants are already growing in window boxes and pots all over both upstairs and down. Flowering vines are growing up the bannister of the spiraling staircase that leads to the second floor. The stained glass windows are scrubbed clean, though there isn't much in the way of bright sunlight filtering through them right now.

At least the lightning flashes are tinted by their colors.]

It's been a lot of work, but...I'm really happy with it.

[gynvael]

[ It is a fair amount of inventory. The smell of herbs within is powerful, and though the dust makes for a poor view of the city just past its doors, he imagines the plants within will thrive again once the storm clears.

If it clears.

He places the box next to an empty shelf waiting to be filled. The glass bottles inside clink. ] You should've asked him for bigger.

[ He's only teasing. At this point, he isn't sure even Jaskier knows what to do with his gold. Neither Geralt nor Ciri live lavishly, which leaves a healthy amount of spare change to go into, well. This. Not a bad cause at all. He's glad to see her doing well. ]

[nadine_he_loves]

[Nadine laughs as she moves to check through what needs to go where.]

I think this is about as big as I can handle right now. But now all the space at the old apothecary can be used for the clinic.

[Geralt is well aware of Nadine's struggles with space, and the booming popularity of her clinic and apothecary. Her status as a Summoned had always brought customers and patients in, but in recent months there's been more and more and more. And more and more random people on the street recognizing her. For herself, not just as Jaskier's lady friend.]

I'm still just amazed...I can't believe he bought me a building. Talk about a grand gesture.

[But those were the gestures Jaskier seemed to prefer.]

[gynvael]

You certainly deserve it.

[ He leans against the shelf, arms folded. Despite the genial nature of the visit, there's a sense of something else on his mind. He's been in town since the storms started, but he hasn't shown up for his appointments as he might've. Not since Nero.

He's been more distracted than he means to be. And the inability to leave the city hasn't helped. ]

I wanted to ask if you had something...more potent. The storms—

[ He indicates the dust and lightning beyond. She understands. ]

[nadine_he_loves]

Say no more.

[Nadine understands exactly what he means. The weather's bound to be playing hell with his leg. She turns to her unpacked stock, pursing her lips in thought as she considers the options.

Geralt doesn't like anything that has too much of a sedative or mood-altering effect, which does rule out a lot of the stronger stuff.]

Most of what I'd usually recommend has the chance to make you groggy, or affect your mood. Especially where you tend to need a stronger dose than the average patient.

— ◈ jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ The Horizon may not be calm, but at least it's free of sandstorms. Beneath Kaer Morhen, where the temple sits, he can escape the lightning above and the mud. Here, the spring has given way to snow—a white blanket covering the ground. The frost has consumed the usual spring blooms, but. It's still calming.

Inside, the candles are flickering brightly save one—which he lights for Nero. A ritual that shouldn't matter, but one he does, anyhow.

The ache in his heart is familiar. Dull. It has been a long time since a loss has felt sharp and fresh. (Or perhaps not that long; he'd felt that jagged edge when he thought Ciri lost for good.) These days, it's just. Hollow. A knock at the door he knows they must all answer.

Eventually, he goes to the quiet of his room. Removes some parchment. Dear friend, he scratches, but he stops when he realizes he doesn't know what the fuck he means to say to her about this. Or why. It isn't as if she knew the boy. Why would she give a shit? (She will care because he cares. He knows that.)

He pushes the barely started letter aside. Then a presence interrupts, his medallion humming. Geralt need not question who. Only one person enters the temple freely through that door. ]

[cointosser]

[After one knows a man enough time -- years upon years, or decades, even -- there is a perceptible shift in the world when something has happened. Before he even puts two and two together, even. It's a startling thing, the note that one of the Solvunn Summoned sends out: another Summoned, dead. Permanently. Even in the escape from Thorne, he didn't hear of a Summoned dying. Only disappearing.

It's then he realizes he recognizes the name. He's heard the name, even, at Dean's roadhouse. He's even sure he's seen the man the name belongs to -- some white-haired hunter that looked, in some ways, a bit like Geralt. Not physically, but the way he carried himself. A man who knew he was the strongest person in the room. Who did not hesitate to step into danger.

And rarer still -- a man who Geralt spoke of with affection.

Jaskier stretches his arms out the moment he steps through the portal, landing on the other side into the gold-touched temple he'd helped craft with the Witcher. There it is. That perceptible shift in the air -- between the motes of dust that float in the rays of sunlight, and the weight that presses on his chest.

He peeks in a few rooms until he comes across his friend at a writing desk. It's almost comical, if it wasn't such a sullen mood. Still, Jaskier smiles to see him.] Thought you'd be around here, haunting the halls. At least you can't hear the thunder in here. [It's idle chatter. He's been through this once, with Dean, and he wasn't sure how to help then, either. But Dean had come back. The boy, describing it, had made it sound... definitive. There was no coming back.]

I thought I'd help you light the candles, but... I see you've already finished. [He raises a hand, rolling the brandy inside the bottle around with a swish.] How about a drink?

[gynvael]

[ Death is an old shadow. She has followed him since he was a boy. This is nothing new. It's what he tells himself, and for the most part, he is capable of getting on with his day, his week.

But in the pauses of life, his ribs constrict. He hates that he feels blindsided. Of all people, should he not fucking know better? Nero was simply different. Not indestructible, but so near it that Geralt allowed himself to believe the boy might outlast him. That he could, for once, form a bond without the heavy knowledge that inevitably, it would break.

Carefully, he sets his quill down. He meant to tell Jaskier. Seems he needn't bother.

He pushes back from the desk and pulls out a pair of cups. They clink onto the scratched wood, one, two, and he leans against the table's edge. ]

Grew tired of the fucking storm. [ He waits for Jaskier to pour. ] I found your moogle in the mud by the glade. Thought he'd suffocated.

[ He wonders if Moglad told Jaskier he was there with Clive. Likely. What Moglad knows, Jaskier does, too. At least with Jaskier, he doesn't have to explain himself nor talk about the loss. He can just let it be. ]

[cointosser]

[It is a rather shitty storm. But they knew it isn't why he's here; and he hardly needs to see who the letter is addressed to to guess. Jaskier pours the brandy, pushing Geralt's glass towards him before working on the second.]

What? What the fuck was he doing in the mud?

[He raises a hand. He needn't ask, actually. Not because Moglad is a fool -- he is, but a delightful one -- but because he is intricately linked with the moogle in the most accidental of ways, and the moment Jaskier feels off, suddenly Moglad doesn't know his quarter notes from a sixteenth.]

He's been chasing Yjönnstifer for days now. The bloody thing keeps trying to live in the mud puddles, like it won't drown being down there too long! Honestly, I'm rethinking this whole "zoo" concept. It's becoming a terrible chore to make sure they all don't off --

[He cuts off. Perhaps he should not be talking about his animals accidentally dying.]

I'm sorry.

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier dismisses the question the instant it leaves the bard's mouth. For the best. Geralt hasn't any answers for why those damn moogles do anything. Like pursue a miniature monster.

It strikes him that may have been the reason why Moglad was incapacitated in the mud. Fucked itself up trying to kill the morbol.

He exhales sharply. ] I'm not—

[ It isn't as though he is suddenly incapable of discussing death. He lost someone. Someone he considered a brother. It happens. He will grieve and move on. But it feels like he should have...he wasn't ready. For many, he was ready. His Witchers. Old friends. Some part of him is always prepared to wake up and find any one of them gone.

Nero was different. In some ways, their bond felt—

Fuck. ]

You'd have hated him. [ His lips quirk. ] He was just like Lambert.

[cointosser]

[He's not many anythings. And Geralt can say whatever he wishes, but Jaskier knows him far too well. Well enough to know this death must hang particularly heavy. Geralt will move on. He will be "fine." That's the nature of Witchers. Such truths have never helped to make things easier. They are survivable, but it is not easy.]

Probably. He sounded like someone who talked too much.

[He drinks his brandy with a sharp wrinkle in his nose; it's strong, perhaps stronger than he meant it to be. And without asking, he refills Geralt's glass.]

Your favorite sort. Those who don't shut the fuck up.

[oversight]

As it happens, with the weather not doing much by way of changing, Blake finds he needs more than just the occasional scrub-down using the communal bath in his building and therefore takes it upon himself to (continue to) throw himself at the mercy of Geralt and his household. It's not usually an imposition he's willing to inflict, but Blake's grooming routines have been very solitary and personal ever since he's finally had a bathroom of his own, one he didn't have to share.

But sharing isn't unfamiliar, nor is finding ways to overstep certain boundaries, which is why he ends up coming through the unlocked door, telling himself it's as good as an invitation. It's unlikely anyone would invade this particular home, he supposes, while invading it anyway.

"Geralt?" He calls it out on his beeline for the bath, figuring it's only polite to make his presence known. While there's a chance Jaskier's around, as well or instead of Geralt, Blake doesn't consider his timing nearly so lucky; the last several times he hadn't been either. "It's only me—" he says, after a few more steps. He's got a pack with him this time, slung over his shoulder with everything he needs.

[gynvael]

Geralt is a man who prefers his privacy, but between Jaskier and Ciri, it's common for them to receive visitors. Besides, he isn't home many days, either. It's only the storms that have kept him from riding off into the desert as usual.

So when Blake returns three weeks after he last appeared, Geralt thinks nothing of it. They're acquainted enough. He is, however, in the tub Blake seeks to indulge in. With Jaskier elsewhere and Ciri away until midnight, Geralt's left the bathroom door halfway open—in part to keep the air cool. The rising temperatures are beginning to stifle.

He hears Blake long before the man announces his presence. Doesn't bother to exit the tub.

"You should learn to knock." Is he being serious? Perhaps, perhaps not.

Truthfully, he isn't in the mood for company. But he's in even less of a mood to explain that. It doesn't matter. No reason to dwell, and Blake makes for a sufficient distraction. The man rarely asks too many questions. (Usually.)

[oversight]

Blake's hand is on the partially opened door when Geralt's complaint is registered and he stops short of pushing through the threshold despite himself. He tilts his head, like listening to the echo of those words bouncing around his memory, and clutches the strap of his bag a little tighter before replying, "Knock, knock."

Is there any sense in standing on pretense here? Blake doubts as much and forges ahead anyway, only opening the door enough to slide through. "Sorry, should've called ahead," he says, although he only spares Geralt the briefest of appropriately apologetic eyebrows before slinking to the mirror, ever ready to scadaddle like a scorned animal should he find himself increasing the other man's ire.

He's eager for a shave; his stubble's dark, thicker than he'd like. It's not unattractive by any means, but Blake has always found that his face reads too boyish for people not to take note. On one hand, he appreciates looking youthful despite how he feels (Geralt can surely relate), but on the other hand, it's infantalizing to hear that five o'clock shadow makes you look all grown up even once (and he's never quite forgotten it).

"You mind?" The asking comes even as Blake is digging into his bag, less a request and more a probe testing for the temperature of the Witcher's temperment at the moment. Something feels... uneven, like a slant in the floor drawing him towards the well of gravity surronding Geralt and his tub. Dourness comes to mind, but much like the rest, he doesn't dare risk bringing it up first.

[gynvael]

An audible sigh comes from behind the door, exasperated but not filled with any real displeasure. Geralt is scrubbing out the sand that never fails to accumulate in his hair. A task he would not normally bother with this early in the day, but he needed something to do, and even he realizes that he's. Tense.

That aside, the persistent lightning storm bothers his leg. The hot water helps.

"You've lost your mirror now?" Despite the remark, Geralt waves at Blake to proceed with whatever the fuck he came here to do.

He should get Jaskier to find Blake a more suitable place before the man makes this his second home. His own damn mirror, at the very least. It's a passing thought. He knows it's more than the amenities that draw Blake to the house. And it is more than a case of goodwill or pity that Geralt allows this to take place. His unlocked door is not so much an open invitation as an indication that Geralt hasn't got much of a problem vacating intruders. That, and Jaskier has made a point of announcing he lives with a Witcher, and therefore unsolicited fans should leave this house alone.

But he isn't throwing Blake out. So here they are.

[oversight]

What he's bothered to acquire for the purposes of grooming is a noticeable uptick in quality compared to the rest. His clothes are serviceable but not nice. They don't sport the same sharp edges as his straight razor, nor do the clothes share the fine details like the engraved handle. This was an extravagant purchase for Blake, something he'd saved up for, and just another example of his personal priorities. It's handmade by someone in town, along with the brush and bowl which are a deeply lacquered wood. Prized possessions for a man who keeps very little and often rebuffs claims of sentimentality.

"Be outta your hair once the sand is," he notes as he continues to draw what he needs from his bag. He knows that Geralt's irritation isn't nearly as heavy as it sounds and that's the only reason he's got any sass in him. Any more snap and Blake might have taken a pass. Instead, he finds himself steadfast in his position, peeling his shirt away to reveal the pale skin he's kept under wraps, but focusing on Geralt's reflection in the mirror.

"Used to have to share with dozens of other kids," he says, voice skewed as he goes about his business. Shaving takes a little more finesse now that he's got that scar. "So I know how much it sucks when someone just up and ruins the mood."

Is acknowledging it better or worse? Blake lathers messily, wondering himself what it is he feels here. He's halfway soaped up when he stops to look back over his shoulder, eyeing Geralt with a thin suspicion.

"You okay?" The tingling of unease in the back of Blake's head won't stop. He's got to at least ask. Little does he know, but Abraxan magic has its place for him as well, even if it means he's siphoning these sorts of feelings from others.

[gynvael]

His expression flickers between amusement and something more contemplative. He finishes rinsing out his hair, which—for once—has been let loose from its leather cord.

"Should've sent you to the lake like us. Plenty of room. Patches of ice to sit on."

Fits at least several dozen boys, though it hardly matters when most don't make it past their first few months. He rises from the tub, reaching for a towel as he steps out. Water drips onto the tiles below. Geralt pays it little mind as he carelessly scrubs his hair dry.

Sensing Blake's unease, his eyes linger on the other man, watching the scrape of the razor's edge. Funny that Blake asks him first. If something is wrong.

He pauses. Lowers the towel. He does not consider himself an easy man to read, but he's met his share of the ones who see more than most. It's not accurate to say he hates it, but. On occasion, he does. And he could claim he's all right. Tell Blake to mind his own fucking business. In truth, Geralt has not spoken to anyone about what happened. Not really. He's informed them; he's listened to Steve. He has not said much of it himself. What would it accomplish? But Blake doesn't know Nero, nor what Nero truly meant to him, and it grants a distance that does not exist with others.

After a moment, he fastens the last button on his trousers and settles for a cautious, "It'll pass."