abraxaslogs | an awful noise filled the air;

Entry tags:

an awful noise filled the air;

Who: Geralt & Lord John Grey
When: Early October
Where: Free Cities; The Badlands
What: Lord John moves to Free Cities; things do not originally go as planned
Warnings: None atm, will update as needed

It is not the first time Lord John finds himself with no idea of where in the world he might be, but the desert is decidedly a new twist. As he swallows back the wave of nausea that seems to accompany every portal he has taken, John shoulders his pack of meagre belongings he has managed to bring with him and squints at the scenery around him. He had done his best to scurry quickly out of the city to Nott, where he met with Yennefer and the mage who had sought him passage out of there. But time waits for no man, and already the sun is beating hot and heavy overhead. Perhaps he should have thought to bring more than the one waterskin he has with him...

It takes a bit of stumbling around, but John manages to find shelter, of a sort. Some sort of rocky overhang that at least provides a bit of shade from the sun. Wrestling off his jacket, John does his best to fold it up and stuff it into his pack, quickly coming to the conclusion that he's going to have to rethink his entire wardrobe, if the temperature in the city is anything close to this. Shooting Geralt a quick message that he's made it safely, John sits and waits and does his best not to think too hard about the whirlwind of events that have made up the past day. Or about the desert around him, for that matter, and what might lie beyond the rocky outcroppings, where he cannot see.

Having no better way he can think of to spend his time, John starts to sing to himself. Silently. He certainly knows better than to make any sound aloud. And when that gets old, he begins to amuse himself with imagining Free Cities itself, and Geralt's house. He can't say he's ever been described much about it, although that does not surprise him much either. Geralt is not one for frivolous details, and John had not thought to ask. He supposes he's going to find out now, one way or another. That is supposing that Geralt brings him back there, but -- he would, wouldn't he? And not just drop him off at an inn to find his own way.

Unease settles in his gut despite his best efforts otherwise. A noise sounds from a few feet away, a shifting of the sand and rocks, but when John turns to look there is nothing there.

"Geralt?" John calls out uncertainly, but gets no reply, and the unease grows.

A few more moments -- minutes? -- pass by, and the sound comes again, much closer this time. John turns in his seat to look toward the noise and comes face-to-face with the strangest appendage he has ever seen sticking up out of the sand, blinking its multi-eyed gaze at him.

"Jesus Christ--!!" he exclaims, and barely manages to scramble out of the claw-eye-hand's reach as it takes a swipe at him.

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The second John contacted him, Geralt was making preparations to leave. In an ideal reality, he'd have been given some forewarning, longer than mere hours, but as with most things in life, nothing is ideal. It's all right. He expects John can look after himself, will have to trust that the man can.

He rides. He ends up needing to take a longer route to avoid the soldiers training in the desert. As much as he does not think they will give him trouble for retrieving John—after all, is he not bringing them another Summoned, defecting from the enemy camp?—he is aware he's not asked permission. He's prefer not to push his luck. Fuck knows he's done that enough times already.

He contacts John briefly for information, a few details to help him locate. It's enough to bring him to the cave he knows sits east of the setting sun and slightly south of the mountains, surrounded by massive barrel cacti and...no nests. He's certain the sandskids and howlers are much deeper into the wasteland.

Unfortunately, the wilds are what they are. No accounting for where beasts and monsters may roam when the whim strikes. Especially with all the fighting. Disturbing homes and burrows, uprooting prey and driving predators closer and closer to the local population for food.

It is for that reason that Geralt rides up to find this: a squealing monster in the throes of death, a familiar figure trapped under it but obviously victorious, and a spindly claw scrabbling in the sand before it goes still.

Geralt hops off Roach. Hmm. Not...what he anticipated he'd see when he came to find John. He draws his sword just in case, stepping towards the gory scene and offering John a hand to his feet.

"Couldn't wait to find trouble, I see."

Edited 2024-10-01 01:30 (UTC)

As John had scrabbled away, the creature's appendage had yet again disappeared underground, until it appeared again, much closer than was comfortable, bursting forth from the sand in front of him, in its entire monstrous form.

A sword made of light appeared in John's hand at that moment, solving the problem of how exactly he was supposed to defend himself from this beast. What proceeded from there was not exactly John's finest hour, but he had at least managed to stay clear of anything that resembled a tooth or claw or otherwise poky bit that might have some sort of strange and venomous substance associated with it. He managed to slash off one of the creature's appendages but unfortunately that only made it angrier.

John has no idea how he might outrun or escape this thing so, when next it comes charging at him, he calls upon the depths of his training and manages (somehow) to gut the beast before it guts him. Unfortunately, with the momentum of its attack...

The sword vanishes once it realizes its purpose is done, and John lays there on his back, pinned under the dying creature, swearing profusely in German. Will the universe decide to translate for him, he cannot say, but either way the sentiment is clear. This of course is when he hears hoofbeats, and a familiar voice, and turns his head to stare somewhat incredulously at the man at his side.

"You -- could not have arrived but five minutes earlier?" he bemoans.

A small smile curls his lips. He is glad to see John and had every intention of pulling him in for an embrace upon their meeting, but he can admit there's something a little amusing about catching the man in this precise position, of all things. In a sense, it's something of a relief. Not that he doubted John's ability to defend himself. Just good to see it in action.

He crouches down to push the creature to the side and off of John. The squelch it makes is wet, sand sticking to its gored body.

"Sorry. Stopped for a nap." His eyes glint teasingly under the moonlight. "You seem to have it handled."

Geralt helps dust John off. He glances over his shoulder. Night is falling quickly; it isn't the most ideal time to be wandering the desert, but alongside him he's certain John will be safe. And, John need not walk back. He can ride with Geralt.

"Are you okay?"

There are what one might only be able to call juices from the creature which have oozed onto John as he had laid pinned under its dying form, and being that he was pinned underneath it in the sand, he is already filthy. He narrows his eyes at the other man, clearly unamused by his teasing, yet at the same time very, very relieved to have him here by his side.

"Handled is certainly one way of putting it," John mutters, wiping his hands off on his trousers with a sigh. He glances around the sand around them, hoping he might be able to spot some sign of where his bag might have gotten to, before Geralt's question draws his attention back to the man himself and his expression softens.

"I'm..." He does not want to lie to him, so he hesitates for a moment, before taking in a long deep breath and offering a shrug. "I have been on the run for nearly two days straight. Lost in the desert for hours. I do not even know what that creature was, or what I am going to do with myself now that I am here. I have only one bag to my name and I may very well have just lost that too."

He reaches a hand up to run over his face, frankly not giving a damn whether there are still monster guts on it or not. There are still monster guts all over the rest of him as well. It's entirely possible that the lack of sleep, food, and water is starting to get to him...

John's grumbling only seems to amuse Geralt further. He isn't trying to make fun; it's simply rare to see the man in such a sour mood. Or, what passes for sour for John, in any case, which appears to be little more than a bit of whinging and frowning.

Hopefully, Jaskier isn't home. He suspects John might need a moment before he faces the bard's...everything.

Geralt steps forward and lays a hand on John's cheek. Despite his teasing, his expression is gentle. He rubs away the sticky blood, then pulls John into a firm embrace. It's good to see him in one piece. Solid. He doesn't think he'd have made a good decision were he to have found himself on the other side of the continent while John was at the front lines.

"I have your bag." Over by his horse. "Come on. I trust you're ready to get the fuck out of here."

They aren't far from the city by horseback. A half-day's journey, by his estimate. The home he shares with Jaskier and Ciri are near the gates, a deliberate choice given how often he leaves Cadens.

John sighs softly, feeling his body relax inch by inch as Geralt wraps his arms around him. He reaches up to close his arms around the other man's waist in return, pressing his face into Geralt's shoulder for a long moment and just breathing in the scent of him, soaking in the quiet strength of his presence. It isn't like John to be in such a state, it's true. It is just that the past few days -- months, really -- have been particularly trying.

After a long moment, John nods against the fabric of Geralt's shirt. He is rather ready to 'get the fuck out of here'. Certainly before another one of whatever the hell that thing was shows up again. He's not sure that he's ready to face whatever is waiting for him in his future beyond, but he will cross that bridge when he gets there.

"Dare I ask how it was that you found me out here?" he wonders aloud, pulling back to study the other man's face. Not that he isn't grateful, of course. But talk about a needle in a haystack.

Geralt leans down to fetch John's bag (a bit covered in blood, but otherwise all right) and straps it to Roach. Despite the twitching monster nearby, she seems utterly unconcerned with the situation. As much as he'd like to discuss more with John, it's best they return home first. His home, in any case, and soon to become John's.

Temporarily, at least.

"You told me enough to narrow down a direction," he replies. "Caught your scent and followed it."

With him, it really is as simple as that. A man fresh out of Nott smells distinctly of fish and the lakeside waters, neither of which exist out here in the desert. Besides, beyond that, he does know John's scent, the one that uniquely belongs to the man and none other. Knows it quite well.

He grabs the saddle and swings his leg over his horse. Then he offers John a hand up.

"Did you really..." John replies, raising his eyebrows, more a statement than a question.

John had understood, of course, that Geralt's senses are stronger than the average man's. But to be able to track him across the desert by smell...? John would be lying if he did not say that he finds himself impressed. John cannot help but wonder what other things he still does not fully comprehend about the man before him, before deciding he will find out if and when it becomes necessary for him to do so and leaving it at that.

John has never shared a horse with another, that he can recall. Certainly not riding double such as this, where he is the passenger. Still, he is an experienced rider and so he manages to maintain some amount of dignity when Geralt offers him his hand. Settling himself at the other man's back, his hands come to rest around Geralt's waist, doing his best to anchor himself in place.

"I am trusting you not to drop me off the back of this horse, you know," he says, feeling very aware of the fact that Geralt's saddle was only made for one person.

Unfortunately, Geralt's answer is a mere shrug. His tracking abilities are a combination of experience, training, and his heightened senses, and he truthfully cannot put it well into words. He's navigated the world as a Witcher for over a century. He doesn't actually know what it's like to be a human.

He takes Roach's reins and turns he around.

"I'll catch you," he replies.

John need not worry. It won't be as comfortable as having his own horse, but it'll do. They aren't too far from the city. Its gates loom in the distance as they draw near. It must be a stark contrast to Thorne. Geralt recalls the feeling. He'd grown up in thick forests and rushing streams and cold winters. Then this place. The desert. Not as barren as Korath—there are small oases, bushes and short trees, patches of blooming flowers when it rains in the spring or autumn—but nonetheless a marked change.

"You're fortunate we moved to a larger house."

The last one had a single room and Geralt slept on the floor.

John is tired, and the warmth of Geralt body as he sits pressed against his back and the movement of the horse beneath them are combining to remind him of exactly how tired he is. What energy he had mustered through the sheer terror of facing that creature is now fading away, leaving him feeling exhausted, uncertain, and melancholy. It is not unfamiliar territory for him, but he would rather not start on this footing, here with Geralt in this brand-new place.

He is quiet for a long moment after Geralt speaks, before he finally replies.

"I would consider myself fortunate for much more than that," he says, uncertain whether he is grateful or not that Geralt cannot see him just now. There might be a better place for this conversation than sitting atop Roach's back, but John feels it needs to be said, and sooner rather than later. "Geralt. I am so very grateful for everything you have done for me, these past few days. Months, in truth. With everything that has happened in Thorne, and now this. I never meant to be such a burden..."

Somehow, Geralt can sense John's words before they come. The noise he makes is quiet, acknowledging. He does not need John's gratitude but nor will he dismiss it. He has come to understand that it's important to John to speak these sentiments out loud.

"You are not," he answers firmly. "And believe me, John, you will more than earn your keep by entertaining the bard in my stead."

His tone is playful, but he's sincere. John isn't a burden and Geralt does not go out of his way for those who are not worth his while. John is more than a friend and more than a man he's shared a bed with. He's family. He's somebody Geralt spent several centuries with, who stayed with him through his loss of memories, who helped Jaskier find himself again at the end.

It's that last act that Geralt, deep down, sees himself repaying now. He knows John would not consider this the same, and for that reason, Geralt has not said it to John. But he does owe him for that.

It's true. John strives to be an honest man, in all aspects of his life. He knows what it is like to hold back a secret, the way it eats a person up from the inside out, and he hates that feeling. Though it may be difficult at times, in John's estimation it is always better to voice his thoughts and feelings, when he can. For better or worse, then at least they will be aired to be addressed.

He knows Geralt will never judge him for it, even if Geralt is not one to do anything of the like himself. Geralt is honest in other ways -- John has a feeling that if he ever did something that really bothered the man, he would know about it. But now...

Geralt is quiet and reassuring. Gentle, in a way that makes John's heart ache with fondness for the other man. He is here. He is here at last.

John leans forward to rest his cheek against the back of Geralt's shoulder, quiet for a long moment before at long last he says, "Tell me about your home together." He realizes that they will be there soon regardless, but he'd like to know more. Hear it from Geralt himself, even if he knows he's not much of a talker, so that he might envision how he could fit himself in with the little family he knows that they have made for themselves.

He hums. It takes him a moment to consider if only because he does not consider their home anything special. Perhaps he is not a man who carries the same attachment to a place as others, with the singular exception of Kaer Morhen. The people who live in it are important to him, but the house is merely a house.

Though he's more than glad to invite John into it.

"Decently sized. Finally built myself a bed." John may be left to wonder precisely how long Geralt has been without a bed. (He shared Jaskier's on occasion.) "You'll have to excuse the excessive greenery. Jaskier's made full use of his ability to grow plants. And...the pets. Damn things are always underfoot."

He's not as annoyed as he sounds. They're as much a part of the family, and John will discover upon arrival that Geralt has also built the small leosylph and Jaskier's toy gryphon each a bed of their own.

The finally does leave John questioning slightly, it is true, but the fact that he does have one is the good part. John imagines that Geralt would have left himself until last anyway, assuming he had constructed the furniture for the others first and they hadn't just gone out and purchased it for themselves. Knowing Geralt from what he does in the hundreds of years that never were, he has the feeling that Geralt probably did build many of the things in their home for himself.

(Speaking of, John shifts for a moment, pressing a hand to his chest, reassuring himself that the little acorn that Geralt had carved for him is still safe and sound in his jacket pocket. After rolling around in the sand to escape that creature, he could never be too certain.)

John lets out the huff of a laugh at the continued grumbling. Jaskier... He remembers the other man's affinity for plants, during their time as gods. He also remembers the way his magic had crumbled, corrupting as he had fought so hard to maintain it, during that last conversation of theirs. The thought that any such ability has returned to Jaskier fills John with a fondness for the bard. He will be grateful to see him again too, even despite the...

"Pets?" John asks, raising an eyebrow even despite the fact that Geralt cannot see him. "You do seem to have a talent for collecting strays." John himself now among that number, it would seem.

Plants and birdsong have been Jaskier's domain since he arrived in this place. It's an odd thing to see his friend with magic powerful enough to rival a studied druid—Jaskier was never capable of wielding Chaos on the Continent—but the truth is, he thinks it suits Jaskier. And it does mean he worries less when Jaskier is out and about on his own.

Not that he worried much to begin with. Jaskier is a man who can more than take care of himself—primarily by ascending beyond the fear of being called a coward that gets most other men killed. If the bard must hide behind someone bigger than him, he will do so without shame.

It's a good way to stay alive. Bravery is a fool's downfall.

"Hardly." Geralt shifts the horse towards the south. He'll introduce John to the animals soon. Two horses and a chocobo, as well. "We're all strays of our world."

They find each other, is the more accurate way of putting it. Few of them had much of a home even back on their spheres. He supposes John is a bit different at first glance, but the more Geralt comes to know the man, the more he senses John has not felt at home as often as he would like.

John contemplates that thought for a long moment, as he lets the swaying movement of the horse beneath him and the warmth of Geralt's back lull him into a sense of peace and calm at last. After all the danger he had been in, these past few days, these past few months, finding himself here at Geralt's side he finally feels as though he can breathe at last.

It is odd to realize how implicitly he trusts the other man. How, unspoken, he knows that now he is here, he knows that he is safe. John is a grown man and he is quite used to being on his own and seeing to his own protection, and yet. Having Geralt at his back is a comfort he cannot put into words. Perhaps because he was never quite so alone as he found himself in Thorne. Made all the more apparent with the knowledge of those he did care for, spread across the other territories of the land.

It is true, John supposes. They are all strays here, in one way or another. Lost, or abandoned, far, far from home.

"I had a little dog, once," John says, apropos of nothing, in that way a person does when they grow tired and their minds begin to wander. "Roscoe. A gift from a friend." The only creature John supposes he could ever claim to have called a 'pet'. John smiles fondly, thinking back on the first appearance of the tiny, long-nosed black puppy and its stumpy little legs and quick, pink little tongue. "I do not suppose you have made the acquaintance of Gustav?"

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an awful noise filled the air;

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