[ open ] gonna keep movin', gonna roll to town

[falcony]

WHO: sam wilson and OPEN
WHAT: various prompts, some closed, some open! (open log for oct/nov)
WHEN: End of October/November
WHERE: cadens, desert around the city, horizon, etc.
WARNINGS: n/a atm but will update

Comments

[gynvael]

[ Getting out of the city is, undeniably, a good part of the reason Geralt's out here with Sam. It's difficult to put into words, for anyone who hasn't spent their entire life roaming, but even as large as Cadens is, Geralt still feels locked down—like he can't stray too far, in case something else goes wrong. And he knows he's reaching the point where he can probably venture out again—thought communication across distances helps with that—he's been reluctant nonetheless for the past week. So. Taking Sam out for a hunt less than a day's ride away is a decent option.

Besides, Sam's company has grown familiar now. Simple. It happened when he wasn't looking, when he realized he's come to trust the man with what he does not often trust with others. Geralt's still deciding how he feels about it, if he should feel anything. For now, it means that despite his preference for solitude, Sam's presence no longer feels like an intrusion.

Awful fucking jokes and all. Geralt sighs, casting Sam a look, but his gaze loses a bit of its edge. ] You've been spending too much time with the bard.

[ Sam's posture isn't at ease with the sword as he should be. Geralt's not too concerned; it'll change with time. He does move, though, without hesitating, which is all that matters. Geralt doesn't so much block as he steps out of the way—and for as long as Sam keeps pressing forward, he'll continue to do so, ducking and weaving around each swing. Sam isn't necessarily slow; it's more that he can only be so fast compared to a Witcher. But Geralt's watching every movement, taking it in, and he thinks he's right to feel like Sam has the potential to pick things up quick enough.

Wherever the next blow comes from, Geralt will—for the first time—reach out to catch Sam's arm or wrist, or maybe even the dull blade itself if it gets that close. There's something close to approval in his expression. ] Not bad.

[falcony]

[ honestly, sam hadn't thought about it before taking this trip, but the need to roam, the need to travel, had also been a fairly normal part of his life back home. whether that had a direct connection to his wings, and how much freer he'd felt knowing he had them to fall back on, but also the purpose that came along with it. bouncing back between missions, dc, delacroix, and god - his minor cross-global trip tracking down the serum and flag smashers just a few months before showing up here. sam has tucked it away as part of the process, how used he'd gotten to being able to travel easily, at any time, and how it has to do with his tech, with the easy modernity he'd been so used to.

it's like being able to breathe a little easier, without realizing you'd been struggling to. like a weight being lifted you hadn't known was there.

sam feels a bit like he can breathe better out here, but he also doesn't know if that's because geralt is keeping him busy. that there's so much to camping, to traveling, to hunting that sam's mind can't afford to wander back. to marlo, to mal, to the growing tension in the air. something is going to happen, he knows it, and it's driving him insane not having a direction to move in yet. too worried about pushing too far in one, not enough in another. with this, with camping, there is always a next step. something to do.

it's enough that sam can feel bits and pieces of himself start to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing. it's just sparring, it's just practice, but sam doesn't carry any of that background worry as he adjusts the practice sword in his hands. ]

Okay- for one? I'm offended you think I get all my jokes from Jaskier. I have my own material. [ he steps in for another strike, or at least an attempted one, because geralt steps to the side or leans just enough that sam just gets air. on the next, and the one following. sam steps back for a moment, recenters, before cracking another smile. ]

But, after seeing you both at Julie's? I get the connection. It looked like y'all had fun. [ which, okay, maybe sam shouldn't bring up the party - he'd managed to successfully avoid talking about how he wasn't quite able to shake the mood there, in the same way he can here, and he's not really in the space to want to talk about it now. not when he's finally getting a few moments to breathe. so he chooses that moment to strike- or at least make some semblance of a fake and strike, which is why it gets close enough, and how geralt reaches out to stop him. he notes the approval, or whatever its closest cousin seemed to be, and feels the prideful sort of warmth spread out in him. ]

Yeah yeah. [ he rolls his eyes and loosens the stance, steps away again to reset. he knows he's doing quite a bit wrong, objectively probably has a better idea of what he's supposed to do than he can really put into practice. but that's why they're here, isn't it? sam breathes for a few moments, rolling his shoulders. ] Well? Hit me. How bad am I?

[gynvael]

[ His eyes Sam for a second when the man brings up Julie's. His lips twitch. He's aware Sam saw because they'd not been exactly subtle, though it isn't like they really. Got anywhere. Thanks to a variety of mishaps that Geralt doesn't particularly mind, in all honesty. It isn't like he hadn't wanted, but. Hm. What's there between him and Jaskier has never given him much cause to push it along or pick it apart. It ebbs and flows, and undoubtedly at some point, it will crest again when the mood strikes them both. Until then, he's content to leave it be.

Besides, he'd gotten his satisfaction at the end of the night elsewhere. That'd been more than plenty for him.

But he hasn't missed that Sam had been a little off that night. Not hard to notice when Sam's usually not like that. Geralt hadn't said anything of it, other than coming up to Sam for a few moments with a drink. He gets it. A lot's happened. And where Geralt tends to sink into a combination of baser instincts and work to get his mind off things, he's caught on Sam isn't the same where the former is concerned. So he doesn't mention it now, either, just lets go of the blade and raises an eyebrow in answer. Sam will handle what's got him preoccupied in his own time. Geralt's just here to make sure Sam can swing a sword while he does so. Maybe take his mind off of what he can't help and put it towards what he can do. Which is learn. ]

You're too stiff. Your footwork falters. [ That's no surprise. Most focus so much on learning their handling, they forget about their feet. Which, to Geralt, is arguably more important. Because you need a weapon to clash with a sword, but you don't need one if you're good enough to get out of the way before it ever comes near.

There's something else, though. Something he isn't sure is a lapse so much as a choice. ] And you don't strike to kill.

[falcony]

[ sam can see the twitch in geralt's mouth, and honestly just assumes it's one of his not quite smiles. over the months sam thinks he's started to piece together what it is that jaskier and geralt are to each other, but in the same breath, he sees the way they interact at the party and sam thinks maybe he doesn't understand it at all. it doesn't matter, all in all. he knows they have decades of friendship under their belt, and probably a whole lot more.

he had, though, noticed the way the stress had seemed to break all over julie's party - he'd left early enough not to, necessarily, be there for all of it, but he'd seen the way eyes had followed bodies, how the beating of the music had pushed along the drinks. part of him is a little sad he hadn't been in the mood, a little disappointed he hadn't been there to take advantage of it, but he knew himself enough to know it wouldn't be worth it given where his headspace had been out, so sam tried, and then ducked early.

and now they were here - sword in hand, out in the desert, and geralt who won't make sam feel like he has to say anything at all. sam nods as geralt points out his stiffness (he could see that, could see how it snuck under his attempts) and his footwork. feet, god. he never remembers what to do with those. there's a reason he takes to the sky when he can. it's that third note that draws a snort from sam as he picks the sword up again, making a couple of practice swings in another direction from geralt before turning back. ]

No, I don't. [ said casually, as sam tries another practice swing and then turns back to geralt - his expression that of being quite aware what geralt is getting at with that comment. ]

Where should I put my feet?

[gynvael]

[ Sam looks at him and Geralt only looks back. His expression is no less unyielding, even if his stance is equally casual. Is he surprised? No. Can't say he is. Sam moves through the world like he's the only knight it has and while Geralt doesn't exactly find fault with him for doing so (he wonders, sometimes, what it's like to have that conviction), it also has no place when swords are drawn.

He shifts around and places his hands on Sam's hips, readjusting his stance until he's aligned, and his spine not bearing the brunt of any weight that might come down. ]

Most think surviving lies in how you parry. Moving out of a strike holds more value. You watch the feet for that. [ He fixes the grip Sam has around the hilt. ] And you aim to end the encounter within seconds.

[ Which, you know. Doesn't involve thrusting a sword in ways that won't do much to stop a man for good. ]

[falcony]

[ their time together had been long enough that sam knew about this difference in their view - that geralt's understanding of the world was adjusted to the harsh place he'd been from. and while sam could, in his own right, see himself carrying that same cold acceptance of what had to be done - that was part of all of him, wasn't it? the fact he didn't stop fighting, wouldn't stop fighting, even when it felt like everything in the world was pushing back?

we can't lose this fight.

geralt steps around and places his hands on sam's waist, adjusts him to where he should be standing and placing his feet in the correct place. sam lets geralt adjust him, quieting for a moment as he focuses - specifically - on the placements of his feet and hands, listening quite seriously as geralt talks. the air between them is easy, and even when sam lets himself soak in the information, there's still enough of that easiness for him to give a small smirk up towards geralt where he's still close enough to see it. there's a teasing tone to sam's words, and if he were any more like jaskier, probably some kind of eyebrow arch. ]

Good thing there are plenty of ways to end an encounter.

[ sam strikes out again as soon as geralt lets go of him, the movement of it already looking better. ] So you keep your eyes on your opponents' feet? What about their face? [ another practice swing, still right in line with what geralt is probably trying to get him to do, though not entirely there. ] Unless you're worried about how handsome they are catching you off-guard. [ this time, sam is going to turn, his strike going directly for geralt again, attempting (and knowing he will probably fail) to catch him not paying attention. except that geralt is probably a bit too close for even a sparring strike to do much damage, even if it did hit. ]

[gynvael]

[ There's a quiet huff under his breath. It's one that says he knows exactly what Sam is doing, that he isn't against it, but also—that is not what they're here for. (Mostly.)

Sam's catching on. Helps, that Sam isn't exactly untrained altogether. He can obviously fight. Just not with a sword. Besides, Geralt isn't aiming for perfection. They don't have years to train and hone; they have, at most, a few months to get Sam up to par. Like he told Amos, he only has to be better than who he's facing off against and Geralt thinks he can get both of them to that point. But unlike Sam, Amos hasn't got a problem going for a killing blow.

Casual ease or not—and there is an ease, one he only shares with a rare few—Geralt is almost never not paying attention. He sidesteps to the left, catches Sam's wrist in his grip. It's firm, maybe even bruising, but not meant to injure as he gives it a twist. His fingers wrap around the sword, pulling it from Sam's grasp and turning it on him in one smooth motion. The point rests just under Sam's chin. ]

Yes. There are. [ Several ways. Like ending it dead, on the wrong end of a blade. He raises an eyebrow. ] If you want to charm your way out of a fight, you don't need a sword for that.

[falcony]

[ geralt's huff doesn't go entirely unnoticed, but sam chooses not to address it, either. they may not have had this discussion up until this point, but sam does have opinions on this. and he's fully aware that geralt does not fall in line with those same opinions. it's been alright, because it hasn't exactly been a part of their lives up until now, and sam doesn't exactly plan to start.

he wants to know how to use a sword, wants to not be at a total loss if one ends up in his hands. he's not looking to kill people, though he's aware it's possible to happen. still, his practice won't be in that direction, and he's comfortable enough knowing that killing your opponent is exactly going to be something he'll need to do in his lessons with geralt.

it's complicated, but it's okay. sam's okay with this, and with knowing geralt won't force it on him, even if it came to that. still, sam tries to go for it - a quick strike, in the midst of his chatter, but of course geralt is paying attention. of course he's never not on guard. the witcher's hand curls around sam's wrist in a firm grip, and as his wrist twists, his grip loosens alongside. in a matter of moments sam's got his free hand up in a I give sort of motion and his chin lifted, the practice blade placed right under it. alright, alright, point made his smile seems to say. ]

No, but it never hurts to have both. [ and then whether or not geralt drops the point of the blade, sam will drop his hands - the show of trust painfully obvious, at this point. ] Also depends on my game that day - is it working on you?

[gynvael]

[ On some level, he understands where Sam is coming from. It's not an attitude he's unused to; he knows if he puts a dagger in Jaskier's hand, Jaskier would be no more at ease learning how best to split a man's throat open. But to Geralt, it comes down to something more simple, which is that it isn't really about defending yourself with minimal damage. It's about walking out of there in one piece. And the reality is, he's never been taught any other way. The ability to spare a life is a luxury—one that he can occasionally grasp because he knows how capable he is, but not one most others do.

He does drop the point of the blade. His lips tilt ever so slightly. ] Hardly. [ He offers the sword back to Sam. ] Don't be discouraged. I'm not an easy mark.

[ Except when he is. He's reaching down for his own sword, deciding it's time to see how Sam does when they do cross swords, when the faintest rustle catches his attention. It's distant, but he knows something's wrong before he even sees what or who is coming: nothing carries through the air so distinctly as the smell of fresh and dried blood. Shit. His fingers wrap around his sword. He takes Sam's arm with his other hand, already pulling him towards the sparse trees around. That's what he hates about the desert. The complete lack of cover. He doesn't explain, doesn't say anything, just gives Sam a look that says he should keep quiet and come along.

There are voices drifting now. Too far to make out words; close enough that he can tell they're men, a few of them—three or four—and out here? That tells him all he needs to know. A tension runs through him that isn't usual, like he's already halfway resigned to what's about to happen. Maybe he is. Either way, he isn't looking to hide, just to avoid attention: slipping his sword back out of sight along the side of Roach's saddle, but without quite releasing his hold on its hilt. ]

[falcony]

[ it's not an easy place to come from, either. sam does not have an easy time of it, hadn't back home and doesn't here, but it's the principle of it, for him. he wants there to be the opportunity to not, wants to be the example that it's possible, even if it takes work. he'd told bucky to do the work not long before they'd both ended up here, and sam reminds himself of that every day. it's not easy, it never will be, but that doesn't make it less important.

he can only keep fighting for it, keep pushing those around him to do better. beyond that, it's up to them, and he's not going to argue too much more.

the point of the blade drops and sam sees the tilt of his lips. feels something almost like a smile out of geralt, and it has him grinning even more. he does take the sword, adjusts his grip for a moment or two, before letting out a long sigh. ] No, you aren't, but it's not gonna stop me from trying. I can be pretty damn stubborn, you know.

[ he's taking a step away from geralt, then, practicing the stance geralt had just put him in, getting more comfortable with the grip of the hilt. he's not sure this is ever going to be second nature to him, but he can feel what is already beginning to be easier. a habit, maybe, if given the time. he's turning back around to geralt when he notices the distinct moment that the tension shoots through him. it's why he's prepared when geralt grabs his arm, why he's walking with him towards the collection of sparse trees.

sam's expression is quite suddenly very different - that ease of air turning serious, on guard. he doesn't ask geralt to explain in words when geralt's eyes tell him to keep quiet, but the look he shoots him should say enough. that's when sam remembers the warnings magpie had given him, about bandits, about the dangers of the desert. sam notices how geralt tenses and realizes that he's preparing himself for a fight. preparing himself for an attack. and sam realizes this as geralt very subtly adjusts his stance, where he's holding the sword, and sam does a bit of the same - moving the practice sword (because of course, of course this is happening while he has a dulled blade) to be a little less obvious, eyes on the sand dunes around them.

where are they? ]

[gynvael]

[ Doesn't he know. Not that Geralt has any room to talk for himself. There's a level of respect between the two of them, that they do not push, but Geralt also knows if pushing is unlikely to get either of them anywhere.

And where it counts, Sam tends to be on the same page. Like now, where Geralt doesn't question whether or not Sam will follow him or whether Sam will understand not to say or do anything. Common brigands are not difficult to deal with, but dealing with them can make things difficult, and that's not something either of them need right now. He's hoping they'll be in a good mood—drunk on whoever they've killed and pillaged before this, more eager to dig into their spoils than bother with two men and a lone horse. So all he does is continue to pack up, adjusting Roach's saddle while he keeps in reach of his sword—making as though they're in the process of leaving. Which isn't untrue. If he and Sam can hop on Roach and ride out of here without incident, that's all he wants.

So of course it isn't what he gets. Where Sam might be looking, Geralt is not; his back is turned altogether, but it's clear he's listening. The footsteps that approach are not what concern him. It's that they slow, and eventually stop. Fuck.

Up close, the blood is especially strong. Not entirely fresh; not old, either. Drying. A few hours instead of days. He turns around and counts four of them, armed with the sort of rough, brutish weapons meant more to frighten than to kill efficiently. His fingers curl loosely around the mare's reins. It's hard to tell whether they're seeking to rob or simply cause trouble. ]

We're just on our way.

[falcony]

[ and sam can be comfortable enough with that, he thinks. mutual respect, a level of trust. geralt knows that sam will have his back and sam doesn't have a single doubt about geralt, either. they can keep going on that path. they can keep those things level.

sam is not entirely unused to these scenarios, but it's been years since he was deployed. the in between left him dealing with universal attacks from gods of power rather than just your every day brigand or bandit, so it's possible sam is a little more tense than he needs to be. it's possible that sam needs a second to relax, just so they can stay where they are, so he can actually offer to help geralt pack, keeping one eye out to the dunes and the other on the task at hand.

it means he can see them, as they break over the ridge and down into the small area he and geralt had set up camp. it means he can see all four of them - faces covered, weapons in hand. they move slowly, wary and on edge, but no less direct - they are here for their things, sam reminds himself. just thieves, looking to make a quick buck. but the thing is, that's not the only thing sam sees, because the closer they get the more it becomes obvious that the streaks of dark across their legs, their arms, is blood.

they come to a stop and geralt turns to face them, sam finding himself back behind the witcher and just to the side enough to see around his shoulder. the one in front laughs at geralt's words, eyes turning to the other three. ]

You hear that? They're on their way. [ sam feels an edge to the words that has his hand tightening around the hilt of his practice sword, his other hand slowly edging to where he keeps his knife. ] Leave the horse and your shit, and maybe we'll let you.

[ at those words, sam feels a kind of disappointed breath leave him, knowing just about how well those terms are going to go. because it's not the stuff either of them are worried about, but the horse. sam glances to geralt - then - as if to check what he's thinking. ]

Now! [ the bandit yells, the other three at his sides starting to edge forward again. ]

[gynvael]

[ There are times he misses the natural fear folk hold towards him back home. Few would confront a Witcher over his horse in the middle of nowhere, with not a town to stand behind them but only four of their own. Out here, they assume him just another human.

It is not about the stuff. But there's a difference between being robbed in the city and being robbed a day's ride out into the barren desert, horse and all. These men know that, too. The blood staining their hands tells him they do not care, and he realizes as he takes them in, one has a limp broken doll, stained red, stuffed into a bag slung over a shoulder. His eyes narrow.

He's already made his decision before any of them move. He doesn't look at Sam; in this moment, it matters not what Sam thinks or has ideas of. His instinct has turned to making sure they both return intact. He waits until he senses that shift in the air. His sword appears in his hand in a flash.

Time does not slow so much as the men simply move slow, to him. If he'd been quick before slipping between Sam's swings, he's even quicker now. He ducks a wide arc, pierces right through the soft belly, and rips downward. He's spinning before blood even finishes spilling to the ground, sinking his blade into another's leg before splitting his throat. ]

[falcony]

[ sam considers, briefly, what it might look like if he were to try and talk them all out of this. he's been in tight situations before, knows when to try and step in to take advantage of a chink in their armor, but as the bandits start to move closer and sam surveys the lot of them - catching, perhaps at the same moment, the bloody doll in the bag - he knows there's no talking anyone out of this. there's no avoiding this, either.

his senses aren't as quick as geralt's, this is a fact he has come to realize and started the process of being okay with. no matter what, no matter how, geralt would always be faster, stronger, more aware. thankfully, sam's got years of practice in that sphere, and knows that when someone like that moves, you best follow suit.

the bandits seem to notice just about the same time sam does, and suddenly everything is chaos. geralt is already gone, sam's lost track of him before he even realized he needed to be keeping track, but he doesn't have long to worry because one of the bandits is on him, swinging their club - or sword - or whatever it is hard and fast at sam. he is able to parry a blow, dodge another, and gets one strike in and then another. nothing lethal, especially not with the practice sword, but he hits something hard and hears air rush out and thinks maybe, maybe this won't go too badly.

that is when something hits him, hard, against his left side. he turns towards it just in time to stop what had next been a swing towards his head, but only for a few moments. the bandit in question had been the one talking, the one giving orders, and sam thinks of rumlow. of a collapsing building. the bandit is talking even now, saying something about the small campsite not far from here, the screams, the blood. sam recognizes crazy when he sees it, managing enough air for a -] Man, shut the hell up. [ before, upon realizing his grip on the sword was slipping, diving into the middle of the bandit in question and taking them both into the sand.

he gets a few good hits in, but so does the bandit, and while sam knows he got his dagger out somewhere along the way, the bandit had made a go of it, tangling them both in limbs, sand, punches, and groans. they roll, and sam feels something cut him, but he's not sure if its the bandit or a sharp rock, as all his focus is on the knife. on getting it away. they roll again, and in the movement of it, the bandit gets his hand around a rock - clocking the side of sam's head and catching him off just enough to get the upper hand, ending up leaning over sam, sam's own dagger now held to his throat, puncturing the skin just enough to burn.

the bandit spits, a sharp curl of a grin splitting his face where a black eye has already started to form, blood running from the corner of his mouth. sam struggles, or tries to struggle, but stops when the dagger pushes just a bit further into the skin of his neck. ] Any last words?

[gynvael]

[ Two bodies hit the ground in the space of five seconds; the other two would've followed in another five were he alone. He isn't, though. There's Sam, and Geralt finds his attention split for an instant. (This is exactly why he travels alone.)

The man Sam's sent to the ground is getting to his feet, and doesn't make it before blood is spurting. He's not the one Geralt's got his eyes on—that's for whoever has Sam pinned. He hears struggling, sees the flash of a dagger. He closes the distance in three steps. The blade pierces straight into the back of the bandit's skull and out through his throat. There's a twist as he yanks his sword out, shoving the body aside and kicking the dagger out of reach.

Fuck.

He bends down to offer Sam a hand up. Geralt's got blood on him, but none of it's his. A frown draws his brows together and it's clear all of his concern is for Sam and not the corpses in the sand. As far as he's concerned, they should've walked on by and they hadn't. And he doubts they thought twice before murdering a child. He knows the type; they're not men he cares to spare a second thought for.

(In the back of his mind, though, he realizes he isn't sure how Sam will take it. Not that it should matter.) ]

Are you hurt?

[falcony]

[ sam is hyperfocused on the blade. he's been in similar situations before, sure - on the brink of death, blade or gun to his chest, filing through every possible alternative option. but the truth of it is, in that moment, sam's not really sure what he's going to do. he can't get leverage, he can't disarm him, he can feel himself bleeding pretty heavily, he probably has a concussion, he can feel a kind of fog start to settle in, but if he doesn't do anything soon-

blood, and the tip of a blade. sam doesn't really know what is happening when his eyes focus on that, on the tip of a blade pushing out through his throat and towards sam's. and then there is that cracking, of bone splintering, of the bandits skull breaking apart in two, and the body being shoved off to the side.

the man - not only dead, but nearly torn apart. cut through like meat, ripped apart at the seams and tossed away. there is blood, splattered across sam's face that is not his own, and some that is his own pooling at his elbow, down his sides. he should get to those, he thinks distantly. should tend to those and make sure he doesn't bleed out on this desert floor. but he finds he can't quite focus on that, or on how his head is still swimming, or how every breath shoots pain through his sides. because all he can see is the eyes of that bandit above him, wide with shock, then blank. suddenly, as if panicked, sam's eyes turn to the scene around him. to one, two, three more bodies in various stages of the same. dead, all of them dead, and geralt standing above him, holding out a hand to help him up.

geralt, who killed all four of them in the span of what...three minutes? four? geralt, covered in their blood. geralt, who doesn't seem to even be breathing hard. who doesn't spare any of them a second thought. sam looks at the hand offered, then looks to geralt's face - his own expression one part shocked, one part horrified, one part something else.

( it's not fear, that much is for sure. he's not scared that geralt will hurt him. it doesn't even cross his mind. it's more of the weight of the passing moments, the lack of remorse, the sudden feeling of a quickly growing distance. ) ]

Fine. [ it comes out short, like he had to push it out through his lips. and then sam is turning to his side - aware, that he is not reaching for the hand offered to him. that he is ignoring the help geralt is trying to give him. but sam doesn't even think about what that might seem like to geralt, at the moment just trying to. find his footing in all of this. in the four bodies around them, the stench of them in their air. dead. death.

what if marlo finds out about this?

sam - through the pain of his rib - pushes up to his knees, and then his feet, somewhat unsteady but if geralt tries to reach for him in any way, sam will have a hand out to stop him, quick, definitive. ] Nothing lethal. [ his words aren't slurring, which means his concussion isn't bad. good signs, he reminds himself, breathing quietly through his nose for a few seconds as he wraps a hand around one of the cuts on his arm. he looks around, again, getting a better view of the bodies. of the carnage. sam swallows thickly at the undeniability of it all, and can't do anything about that distance growing further and further between him and geralt, before what just half an hour before he'd been so confident in.

the feeling is a bit like the rocking of a boat in the midst of a storm, not knowing if your feet will hold true, or if you'll trip and fall into the depths of the water below. ] Fuck.

[gynvael]

[ Geralt does not consider himself a man especially affected by how those around feel (tries not to be), but that doesn't mean he's not learned to read another with the sort of acute perception of one who uses it to survive. The tension is sharp, Sam distracted, eyes wide, and he suspects it isn't to do with the bleeding on his head.

He withdraws his hand and does not offer it again.

No. Nothing lethal. Nearly was, though. He delves silently into his saddlebag for the strips of cloth he never leaves without. Were they in the city, he'd be concerned about the attention. They aren't. They're far out, the nearest outpost is on the other end of the desert—and this is where the oustrice nest. They will scavenge the bodies. Roving brigands who kill for supplies and scant bags of coin will be missed by no one. He doesn't like what happened, but he won't waste time on it any further, either.

He pushes the bandages into Sam's hands, since he's not about to stand here waiting for Sam to come around and take them from him. ] Wrap that up. We need to go.

[ He doesn't mean to be cold. He isn't, exactly. There's still a furrow in his brows, as he looks Sam over. Sam's injured and that was too damn close. He's just—not interested in being scrutinized, which Sam has a habit of doing. He is equally uninterested in pushing help on someone when it will only be rejected. It doesn't matter. He can't say he expected much different. (Except he had, a little, in the smallest part of him.) ]

[falcony]

[ normally, sam is more acutely aware if others. usually, sam is more concerned with those others than even himself. be it the concussion or his injuries or whatever else, though, sam doesn’t catch the tension in geralt, or how the he retracts his hand. doesn’t offer it back.

sam pulls himself up, to his feet. he keeps his eyes on the ground under him, to his own hands and limbs, to literally anything else except for the scene around them. there’s a rolling in his gut, but he can’t tell if it’s the concussion or something else. he swallows, to keep it down, to keep his focus anywhere else, and for that reason it makes him jump when geralt hands him the bandages - a tension shooting through him before he notices what it is he’s handing off. what it’s about. ]

Right. [ he doesn’t look at geralt’s face, something keeps him from it, but he does take the strips of fabric, does make as quick a job as he can of wrapping them around his arm and middle, trying his best to keep his hands steady.

his mind is spinning - on the bodies, in what they’re doing here, on the blood. and maybe it’s the sheer difference of it that has sam so unmoored, how just a few minutes before they’d been joking, nearly laughing, and then - this. he doesn’t even know their faces, their names. he’d caught the bloodied doll, he’d heard the comments they’d made. they weren’t anywhere near decent people, maybe, but-

sam’s stomach lurches, but he keeps it down with a final tightening of the bandage with his teeth. pulling himself fully back together - or as much as he’s going to be able to. he feels sick, but he can’t attach it onto one specific thing, but when sam looks up to see where geralt had busied himself, the feeling increases. unsteady, uncertain, unsure. ]

Ready when you are. [ sam gets out, walking over to where geralt had kicked off his dagger. the dagger he couldn’t bring himself to use. ]

[gynvael]

[ He cannot, in all honesty, recall a time when Sam will not look him in the eyes. It's not an unfamiliar thing, though. More than a few find his unnatural gaze unnerving. Perhaps that it's too familiar is what digs under his skin, removes any desire to close the gap between them that he might've held solely by virtue that they're (friends) acquainted. This is not the first time things have changed abruptly, and he knows it won't be the last.

If Sam anticipates he'll try to clean up the bodies in any way, Geralt does not. He does clean his sword, wiping off the blood before he slips it back into its sheathe alongside Roach. She's a hint skittish, stamping nervously. He calms her easily with a gesture, and adjusts the saddle on her back. He keeps one eye on Sam, just in case, but Sam seems to patch himself up all right on his own. Amount of blood doesn't seem too bad. A few sutures and some rest should do. But he can tell from how Sam moves that hopping up on Roach isn't going to be a simple thing, so he hangs back, if Sam needs a boost.

For the most part, he isn't giving any of this much thought. If it bothers him (it does), he sees no reason to linger. He's done more for less, has had far more explosive reactions than a bit of tension, and at least Sam has not fled in the opposite direction. So. Right now, he just wants to get back to the city and wash the blood off. It's beginning to itch where it dries, some of it sticking his hair together. ]