abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] pack up your tents to travel

[ Seldom one to stay unoccupied, Geralt soon takes another contract. Besides, John will be fine on his own now that he's here and he imagines the man has plenty to take care of without interference, between settling in and seeking a job of some kind. He's pointed John to the stables as a place to start. Not exactly a step up from being a member of the City Guard, but...certainly a bit more freeing. Away from orders and kings and queens.

Five days later, he's on his way back to the city, contract fulfilled.

Which means, of course, that something follows him.

The beast is not near as large or menacing as the chimera nor the morbol, but Cid will happen upon him at any point between his dodging of the Howler's sharp-spiked tail, getting kicked by its spiny foot as it releases a shrill scream, and his sword lopping off the thing's head and tail both.

Only then does he realize who's nearby. ]

Our wager [ he flicks the blood off his blade ] does not apply twice. Before you ask.

[ He hasn't got more than two shirts, and Cid has already made off with the one. ]

Edited 2024-10-03 22:01 (UTC)

[ Cid's ventures into the desert have become more frequent over the past few weeks. If he isn't moving between the Farhill Mining Camp and Cadens, he's traveling to collect particular items for the completion of his other projects. It's the latter that sees him out after dusk, and the Howler's screams that draw his attention.

Geralt is little more than a dark blur when Cid rides up, bringing his horse to a stop beside Roach. (Between the necessity of travel and Ciri's kind coaching, he's gotten better at handling the poor beasts.) By the time he dismounts, the battle is already won. The creature's body falls to the sand in pieces, head and tail severed by Geralt's blade.

Cid is silent for a moment too long, brow furrowed, hand still resting on his horse's neck. His gaze flicks from Geralt's sword to his face, and even then the faint line between his brows doesn't entirely soften. ]

If it applied more than once, I'd see you fighting beasts in naught but your knickers before long... and the beasts hardly deserve that cruel fate. [ Cid is keenly aware of the fact that he happens to be wearing Geralt's shirt at the moment — though, in his defence, it's good for traveling. He holds out a hand. ] Fancy a bath and a bite to eat?

[ Geralt, too, has become keenly aware of the same: that his shirt is on Cid. It's both amusing and irritating. Amusing primarily because he did not anticipate Cid would sincerely wear it. At least it's being put to good use. (He will acknowledge it looks...hm. Cid is hardly a man who could look poorly in any outfit.)

As he sheathes his sword on Roach, he considers. There's blood in his hair and streaked over his cheek he doesn't bother wiping off.

He supposes he isn't opposed to company. ] You're buying.

[ He leaves the corpse without harvesting its parts—no reason to when he hasn't any buyers in mind—and hops on Roach. It's good to see Cid with his horse again. Seems the lessons with his daughter are paying off.

They move off in a steady trot together. ]

What brings you out here?

[ A half-hearted roll of his eyes is the only response that Cid gives. He doesn't mind, in truth. He's owed Geralt a drink and then some for a while now; despite his penchant for showing up exactly when Cid has need of him, he can be a difficult man to pin down... in more ways than one.

In truth, he doesn't look half bad even as he is, streaked with gore. Cid watches him climb up without bothering to disguise his interest, and then they're off. ]

I need a particular lens for a pet project of mine, so I thought I'd try... a night market, of sorts. [ He flashes Geralt a brief grin. He's absolutely not talking about anything remotely resembling a night market. ] Your skills have finally gotten sharper, I see. Where'd you pick up that last trick?

[ He keeps his gaze on the horizon as they ride, his tone as easy and casual as ever. ]

Edited 2024-10-09 22:48 (UTC)

[ A lens in the desert, hm? Naturally. Where else would one find a lens and a market but an empty wasteland full of beasts.

Geralt pulls the hood of his cloak up against the dusty wind. ]

Same place I picked up the others. [ His smile is equally brief and no less dry. ] You're starting to sound like my old instructor.

[ Giving him shit for finally be sharper. Geralt doesn't seem much bothered by it, though. If anything, Cid's penchant for running his mouth only puts him more at ease. It's a dynamic he's long familiar with, one he's been surrounded by his entire life. And with Nero's loss, perhaps it is one he finds he's been missing quite a bit as of late. ]

[ The Singularity. Surely it doesn't mean anything that it's decided to dispense this particular skill. A coincidence, or just an echo of the dream come to pass.

Nothing more.

Pressing Geralt about it won't be much use, regardless. Cid does his best to put it from his mind... And in a way, it's less difficult than he expects. Despite the need to keep a weary eye out for beasts, the desert is far more bearable by night, with a cool breeze and good company to warm him. ]

Oh? I could take you on as my protege if that's what you fancy. [ Cid winks at him. ] I'll take good care of you.

Edited 2024-10-17 00:59 (UTC)

[ Geralt tilts his head in turn. It's evident he hasn't given it much thought on his part; the Singularity has often granted its gifts and this one is no different. But he does recall Cid asking him about it before, during one of their first meetings outside the dream, and it is a piece of information he's tucked away since.

Perhaps he'll ask while they soak together. Or over a drink. Whichever comes first.

He releases a quiet huff. ] Like you took care of me in that trap of yours?

[ He's also teasing. It wasn't really Cid's fault. Shit happens in every hunt, and as far as plans go, that one went fairly smoothly. But it gives him a good excuse to poke at Cid about it. ]

[ Cid half knows that he's tipped his hand a bit too much already, not that he could have helped it. Knowing Geralt, it'll sneak up on him again when he least expects it, but for the moment he has other things in mind.

Neither of them could have foreseen what happened with the morbol, but they'd both managed to work their way out of it; anyone else would have found themselves slowly digested in the creature's belly while it roamed the badlands, free as a bird. He and Geralt had gotten off easy... in a manner of speaking. It's all a bit of fun with the benefit of hindsight.

Still, Cid gives him a narrow look. ] I'm sorry — who was it that promised he'd have it done with nary a scratch to remember? If I'd known you needed minding, I'd have asked Ciri along for that bit.

[ He turns back to the road, as if the upturned collar of his coat will hide the grin he hasn't quite managed to suppress. ] I suppose I understand why you're so cross... This is a nice shirt. Real shame you've had to part with it.

[ Gaze on the horizon, Geralt's lips curl into a faint smile. He's a man of many acquaintances—the work of a Witcher brings him in contact with anyone and everyone despite his solitary nature—but there are very few he would call a friend. Cid happens to have made his way onto that carefully curated list.

He rolls his eyes upwards. ] I suppose it's improved your looks by a margin.

[ It truly is a nice shirt. Geralt requires sturdy clothes for killing monsters, and the threads rarely loosen on that one. But perhaps the most absurd part of all this is that Geralt only wears shirts of that make and style—black, buttoned at the collar, plain—which means they are dressed identical each time Cid shows up wearing that damn thing.

This is the bit that makes Geralt sigh.

The city gates welcome them with open arms and a handful of bored soldiers. Geralt nods towards the fork in the road. Beyond the winding street sits a bathhouse, one that's conveniently a few steps away from an alehouse. ]

Shall we?

[ Sharp and sarcastic as he can be, Cid has always been one to make fast friends. He's keen to know everyone, and often eager to help them... or push them, depending on who one might ask.

But even so, there's a part of him that's often held back, reserved for those precious few who consider him more maddening than mad; those who see his faults and remain with him anyway. He feels that particular kind of kinship towards Geralt. They understand each other, as equals. It feels as if they always have. ]

Mm. And here I was thinking you looked better without it. Funny how it all works out.

[ Perhaps if Geralt wasn't so put upon by the whole affair, Cid wouldn't find it quite as amusing. He might even have the grace to be a bit more embarrassed, or to return the bloody shirt now that the game's long over. As things stand, he's especially chuffed about all of this.

Cid turns them toward the bathhouse without hesitation, then promptly leaves Geralt to see to stabling both of their horses with little more than a pat on the back for his troubles. He heads inside to find the proprietor and call in a favour. It's not long before the two of them have secured a private bath, with only the threat of a cleaning fee should they try to make use of the bed in the adjoining suite. Lucky them, coming in late enough to steal a cancellation.

Cid doesn't hesitate to strip and lower himself into the tub, generously sized even for two large men. The water is as tepid as the wine that's been left out, but it's clean, and the room was cheap. He watches Geralt, not at all concerned with hiding his interest. ] Fancy trying to redeem yourself tonight?

Edited 2024-10-26 20:21 (UTC)

[ Funny how that works, indeed.

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. His expression is appraising. Cid is, for a lack of a better word, shamelessly flirtatious, a trait Geralt most certainly does not mind. Might have even reciprocated, in his own way. But it has reached the point where he's beginning to consider if it's time to find out whether it's merely a flirtation.

It is with that in mind that Geralt strips off his own clothes and sinks into the water after Cid.

He reaches for the wine and pours each of them a cup. Smells cheap, but...he'll accept it. It isn't his coin, after all. He does, however, expend a few extra silver for a platter of meat and cheese. He's been in get desert for two weeks. He's hungry. ]

You wish to examine me for another scratch?

[ Because he hasn't any—but Cid is more than welcome to ogle him up close. ]

[ Cid is hardly shy about his flirtation, and while Geralt is a bit more subtle, he doesn't think that he's imagined the interest to be mutual. He had wondered a bit about Geralt's friendship with Jaskier, or the pretty lass who Cid had seen him with in Nocwich, but if he has some compunction about how far his friendships might go, he hasn't seen fit to bring it up as yet.

Cid takes a swallow of the wine from his cup before returning it to its place, then moves closer to where Geralt has settled himself. He reaches for Geralt's face and brushes his cheek with his thumb, washing away some of the dry blood that's been streaked there for far too long. ] Confident that none of this is yours, are you?

[ Cid raises his eyebrows. The wager is little more than foreplay, he's fairly sure they both understand that, but even so... Geralt can take a beating better than most. He does wonder if that high threshold for pain makes it so that a nick here and there is hardly worth a thought. ]

What happens if you're wrong again? [ He grins. ] Seems you've only got so many shirts to lose.

[ When Cid's hand reaches for his cheek, Geralt makes the decision to telegraph his stance and wraps his fingers slowly around Cid's wrist.

A crooked smile flashes across his face, vanishing as rapidly as it arrived. ]

Then I suppose you'll have to lend me yours. On credit, of course. [ He closes the distance between them. Cid smells faintly of tobacco and smoke. The desert air. He's not opposed at all. ] I'm amenable to negotiating interest rates.

[ It's no doubt a moot point, seeing as Cid's shirt is already off, but Geralt thinks he'd like to secure a future where he may have a reason to remove it again. Provided things go as he anticipates this evening. ]

[ Cid doesn't shy away from the feeling of fingers curled around his wrist; his eyes fall half-lidded, a faint shiver tracing his spine. (It's been a while, he tells himself. That's all.) That smile of Geralt's is quick and easy, and Cid takes it as an invitation.

He doesn't try to draw his hand away. Instead, he cups Geralt's jaw so that he can meet those brilliant eyes — always warmer than it seems they ought to be. ]

Are you? I'll consider being generous, then. [ He shifts to lean back against the side of the tub, pulling Geralt with him. ] For an old friend and all.

[ Though his touch is more request than demand, he'll drag Geralt practically into his lap. The man is more than capable of handling himself if he decides that he'd rather not be there — but Cid is happy to offer him some incentive to stay.

He draws Geralt in for a kiss, warm and eager. ]

[ They do, in fact, occasionally feel like old friends in that way Geralt recognizes is not rooted in the most straightforward of realities. Magic and dreams are strange things; it isn't accurate to say his experiences were a lie but nor is it simple to claim it all as real and leave it there.

Perhaps it's a little to do with Cid, too. He reminds Geralt of the sort of men he might've not minded sharing a drink with.

Somewhat more than a drink, now.

He straddles Cid's lap without much coaxing. The water sloshes gently around them. His gaze is considering—and then he leans in for a kiss. Maybe, he thinks, Cid can demonstrate just how generous he can be. ]

[ Cid kisses the way he talks; open and welcoming, but demanding just the same. He's always been the sort to know exactly what he wants and how he wants it. The rough grind of stubble is hardly enough to deter him, though he does his best to angle their mouths in such a way that it won't be a problem.

Geralt's lips are warm, the sharp taste of wine still lingering. Cid slides his fingers up under his hair, holding the nape of his neck. He still smells like blood and leather and too much time spent on a horse, but even Ramuh's endless patience wouldn't extend to the time it would take to thoroughly wash before they get on with things. He lets his free hand wander Geralt's broad chest, tracing the lines of scars long healed over.

When they part for breath, Cid ducks his head for a moment, panting. Nice as this is, Cid isn't the one who's been on the road for who knows how long, and he intends to be at least a bit generous despite his own teasing. ] Mm. I suppose that much of you is in good shape... but I'll have to examine the rest of you, if we're to settle our wager.

[ Geralt responds to that demanding energy in a way that suggests he prefers it, perhaps even seeks it in those he ends up in bed with. His hand presses flat against Cid's chest, palm rough with scars and calluses.

He doesn't yet explore the strange scar on the other man's arm. The same sort of marking he spotted on Dion. And yet, curiously, not Cid.

His lips curl into a rare smile. ] As the winner of our last wager, it's only fair you choose where first.

[ He has suggestions, though, if Cid wants them. He'll even demonstrate on Cid's body in return if necessary. ]

Edited 2024-12-09 22:50 (UTC)

[ Cid doesn't think of the new scar that he bears; the raised edges of claw marks on his shoulder, spaced as if they might have been made by a hand that's roughly human-sized. He doesn't think of the curse, either. He has other things in mind, like the warmth of Geralt's hand on his chest. He leans into it, encouraging. ]

Anywhere I want? There you are being cocky again. You mustn't mind how it's worked out for you. [ He shifts his hand further up into Geralt's hair, gripping a handful of it briefly, in order to direct him to tilt his head to the side. Cid trails a few more kisses down the side of his neck, nips at the skin of his collarbone. Jaskier had warned him that Geralt liked to be treated gently, but Cid is insatiably curious. How gently, exactly?

He shifts his free hand slowly down Geralt's side, letting it come to rest on his thigh so that he can stroke across the inside of it with his thumb, teasing. ]

Can't see well under the water. [ Cid moves his hand again, grabbing a handful of Geralt's firm arse. ] I'll have to make do like this. I'd hate to make you stand around sopping wet for my inspection — at your age, you're like to catch a chill.

[ Has anyone told Cid he's a pain in the arse? Because they should tell him again. Possibly several more times. ]

Do I detect envy? [ Geralt isn't shy with his wandering, either, letting his fingers glide between Cid's legs beneath the steaming water. He can perform his own inspection. ] You didn't look so withered in your old age. I liked the hooves.

[ Shame he never had the opportunity to ride Cid then. Perhaps he should've asked. But he's quite content to ride Cid as he is now, too, and he makes that known by wrapping his fingers around the length he finds, stroking with his thumb. ]

[ Cid's breath catches, his exhale turning into a pleased little hum. Geralt's hands feel good; rough and strong. ]

It's admiration. That pretty face if yours is one of your few redeeming qualities... though I see your personality could be worse. [ Cid doesn't hesitate to return the favour, wrapping his hand around Geralt's cock so that he can stroke over it from root to tip. ] You aren't thinking about the hooves right now, are you?

[ He's joking. He hopes Geralt is joking.

He pulls Geralt a bit closer and brushes his hand away so that he can press their cocks together, holding them both with his own hand, to make it easy for Geralt to grind directly against him. ] Still sore from the saddle?

[ He's more than willing to flip them around and handle this himself, if need be. ]

Of a few? [ His tongue darts out to wet his lips. It's a slow and steady pleasure, and that's the kind he enjoys the most during these lazy afternoons. ] That implies you see more than one in me.

[ He's mostly joking, but, hm. If Cid keeps talking about it, he may actually start to ponder. Later, when he isn't grinding down, one arm braced against the ledge of the pool. As much as he likes being in the water, it does make things slippery and a little annoying in places.

Not as annoying as when Yen insists on that unicorn of hers, though.

He studies Cid. He's not; he's used to long journeys on his horse. But it does make for an easy excuse to accept what Cid is proposing. ] Depends on what you'll do if I say I am.

Mm. [ Cid leans up for a messy kiss, but he makes note of that reaction. ] You're good to your horse, I suppose. You have that going for you.

[ He's enjoying the languid heat of Geralt's body against his own, warmer even than the bath; it's rare to have so much time and luxury at his disposal.

He meets Geralt's gaze. ] I'll ride. To spare your poor back, of course.

[ Things are a bit too slippery, but that won't be a problem if they change it up a bit. Cid draws his hand up so that he can push Geralt back and manhandle him into trading their positions. He's a bit more careful in the normal course, with any lover he's had little experience with, but he trusts that Geralt's strength is more than equal to his own and he has no intention of forcing the issue if they aren't in agreement.

He straddles Geralt's lap before leaning up to reach past his shoulders and the edge of the pool. He needs to reach his own trousers and dig through the pockets for something to use as lubrication. ] Have you the stamina left to manage? Or shall I finish this quickly and see you to bed?

[ Geralt's domain has remained unchanged since he created it. Thick snow, high mountains, a broken fortress that nevertheless stands tall and imposing. The landscape extends a bit further than others by virtue of sharing it with Ciri, whose cabin sits a distance away on the same mountainside.

His wolf is often a shadow between the trees. In the end, it's still a wild animal, though it's certainly far more tamed than a regular wolf. Its fur is white and shaggy, eyes as gold as his. But today, he's got it by his side. Perhaps he's just seeking some silent company. Who knows? He does rather enjoy silence, and while he is fond of Jaskier (never let it be said), it is certainly not quiet at the house.

The festivities have also taken over the streets of Cadens.

So here he is. And in that silence, he hears the crunch of footsteps on snow. Geralt peers down the cliff. He receives visitors from time to time, but they don't usually wander the forest, preferring to march up the trail to Kaer Morhen and knock on its heavy doors. ]

Edited 2024-10-10 18:48 (UTC)

[ river has spent a not insignificant amount of time in geralt's domain, whether or not he was there at the same time. kaer morhen was missing in the dream, lost and forgotten over time like so many other things that were once at the heart of who they are as people. serenity found solace in the forest that moved along the white wolf's path, and although river is not serenity and she fears any future where she might become the mad maiden -

there's still something comforting being here among the trees, in the biting cold and silence of winter. lost in the woods with no destination in mind, she's a specter of a girl, floating along aimlessly in naught but a blue dress marked with the symbol of the fool and bare feet that would surely be frostbitten if any of this were real.

but it's not. it's just another aspect of the dream, and so it is that she seems a little dreamlike when she steps out from behind a tree, pale-skinned and smiling faintly. ]

Bái Láng. Found you.

[ Geralt greets her with a small smile when he turns around. Found him indeed. He'd ask if she were cold, but she appears unbothered by the frost and snow, and Geralt has gathered by now that River is not like other girls.

Isn't like most others at all.

His wolf stops short a few feet, sitting politely without bothering her. ]

Is there a reason you're looking for me? Or have you come for a visit?

[ He won't mind showing her around. She always was fond of his forest in that dream, and while it's a bit different now—the cabin replaced by the towering castle—the mountain itself is a familiar sight. The same imposing blue peaks, the same thick trees coated white. ]

[ she's been thinking about him, ever since the heralds of war made their presence known in the aches and ailments that spread across the continent. things are quieter now but there seems to be no shortage of strange happenings in this world, as ever more whispers and visions and haunted dolls keep an air of tension around thorne.

she wonders if he's used to all of this. river hasn't stopped dreaming about the boy in the basement, but the man before her now is always a stalwart and steady presence. ]

I wanted to see you.

[ no real reason. a social visit, then, and she smiles with a warm sort of innocence. ]

Can I hug you?

[ river doesn't generally ask before doing anything, plenty content to invade people's privacy and go wherever her curiosity takes her. but with this, it just seems like the polite thing to do. ]

[ His smile is a rare thing, but it offers it now in response to her request. Is that all? He remembers the girl afraid to be touched. He's glad that isn't something that has followed her from their fantasy. ]

Of course.

[ He extends an arm and lets River come to him before he enfolds her. He knows Yen and Istredd are looking after her, and yet—he can't help but wonder how much longer she ought to be in Thorne. That castle is hardly sound of mind for most, but he can't imagine it's a good place to be for someone like her.

When they separate, he steps to the side to reveal the wolf, still sitting politely. ]

This is...a friend. [ Of a sort. A companion, maybe. ] Would you like to pet him?

[ she leans into the hug with a smile, because it did follow her, all of the aching loneliness that has driven her to seek out the physical connections she denied herself for a false eternity. she isn't the concept of a girl but a real, living human being with a body and a past and people that she cares about. these small touches help remind her, so she soaks it up for a brief moment before stepping away.

and then, of course - what real, living human girl wouldn't get excited about being invited to pet a wolf?

it's by the strange whims of the singularity that this isn't even the first time this has happened, either; river thinks fondly of clive and torgal, smiling with the same bright-eyed enthusiasm that she had back then when she crouches down to be eye-level with geralt's friend. ]

Hěn gāoxìng rènshí nǐ.

[ she holds her hand out from a safe distance, almost like she's offering a handshake rather than leaning in to pet the wolf directly. ]

[ The wolf does not wag its tail, but its ears do perk up and it seems pleased with her attention. When she holds out her hand, it approaches and sniffs curiously. If she strokes it, its fur is coarser than a domesticated dog's, and shaggy for the eternal winter that blankets Kaer Morhen.

A shame the wolf never met Torgal before Clive vanished. He'd been fond of the man. ]

I don't meet many who speak a different tongue.

[ They all seem to use a certain language here that's commonly understood. He crouches down beside her. There must be a reason she would use it, perhaps in the same way the elves speak Elder. ]

What does it mean to you?

[ river is plenty content to kneel there in the snow and pet the wolf for as long as it'll let her, her pleased smile widening ever so slightly at the way geralt asks his question. it's always 'what does that mean,' not 'what does it mean to you?' a long moment of silence passes as she thinks about how she wants to answer, stroking along the wolf's fur and ogling it with a wide-eyed curiosity as she speaks. ]

Language as a construct is just a set of symbols or sounds used to communicate an idea. We can make the same sounds and disagree on the definition of them, especially among dialects and localizations - or we can say whatever we want and everyone just understands because magic.

[ even after this long in abraxas and studying magic herself, river still has an almost humorous note of disdain for how much of this world is explained away by 'because magic.' she gives geralt a brief roll of her eyes before continuing. ]

The Chinese language has existed for thousands of years. One of only two tongues to survive the long trip to a new sun, but over a dozen mutually unintelligible dialects blended together until there was only one left to share. Could go back a thousand years and we wouldn't be able to agree on a single sound, but we'd all be speaking Chinese.

[ she pats the wolf's head with a playful sort of expression like she's saying 'isn't that cool?' before turning to smile at geralt. ]

It's the same either way, right? They're just sounds. Sharing it gives it meaning. Like saying "it's nice to meet you."

[ His eyebrow raises, but Geralt listens patiently with his arms folded. He supposes that's true, even if it isn't a topic he's granted much thought to. That's the realm of scholars and those with too much time on their hands to sit and contemplate.

Or peculiar young girls.

The wolf's expression does not change but it doesn't seem to disagree with her assessment. After a moment, though, it pads off again, disappearing into the not-quite-solid mass of trees that vaguely make up his surroundings. ]

We haven't many languages on the Continent, either. After the Conjunction, all that remained is what the humans spoke and what the elves spoke.

[ He tilts his head for her to follow him up the path and inside Kaer Morhen. The twin doors to the main hall are as imposing as they're worn, but the interior is warmly lit: a roaring fire, a few braziers, and—of course—the ever-present medallion tree. It's a far cry from the modest family cabin he had in their far-off dream. Still, the hallmarks of it echo through the design. Wood, stone, furs. Simple.

He wonders if she can sense the history in these scarred walls that others often miss. ]

Shall I show you around?

The house, unsurprisingly, is empty when Geralt returns with John. Jaskier, he expects, must be away on business in Libertas and Ciri is no doubt finishing her job somewhere on the trail.

The ride was long but not especially hard all things considered. No further monsters struck and the guards at the gates showed no sign of giving them trouble. He isn't certain if they know John to be from Thorne, but Geralt had tossed his cloak over the man—covered in dust and dirt as it is—to avoid too many questions over John's clothes.

He shows John the tub, the living room, and of course Geralt's own bedroom where John will be staying for now. So long as there are no objections. They wash up together—may as well—before he leaves John to get some well-earned rest. Geralt, meanwhile, ventures into the kitchen to dig up some...hm. It ought to have been dinner, but given how long they've travelled and the sun now in the sky, he supposes it's breakfast.

Luckily, with Jaskier around, the kitchen is well-stocked, insomuch as it can be given the shortages in the city. He finds a loaf of bread, a pot of stew still warm on the stove, and a jug of ale. He doesn't turn when he hears John's footsteps some time later, but it's clear he notices from the smile that graces his lips.

"Feeling better?"

Edited 2024-10-07 01:10 (UTC)

John certainly does not object to the bath, nor to the idea of staying together with Geralt in his room. In truth, he had been more than a little uncertain as to how Geralt would handle this arrangement (Geralt being, well... Geralt), but sharing his room with him is a relief, even if his relief is somewhat tinged with a little shame and embarrassment. He is a grown man, it's just that he is starting over again, and so having Geralt close at hand is a welcome reassurance.

Laying down in Geralt's bed, in Geralt's house, while Geralt leaves him to it, still feels awkward. But it smells like him and after having spent centuries in each other's circles, in Geralt's cabin in the woods and the bed he had made for himself there, the awkwardness soon passes.

A few hours later, John blinks his way into consciousness at the smell of stew and stumbles, somewhat bleary-eyed, toward the smell. His hair is a little mussed from his short rest, but otherwise he's looking much better than he had been previously, the shadows under his eyes much lighter now than before.

"Much," he replies. "This may be my hunger talking, but that smells wonderful. Did you cook? Am I about to find myself spoiled with home-cooked meals now as well?"

Jaskier enters his house mostly the same way he always did: expecting nothing and already complaining to Geralt, regardless of whether he's home or not, but considering the smell of stew that immediately hits him (he didn't even ask), he clearly is home.

"You are never going to believe the day I've had." He starts, walking through the hallway and only briefly stopping to toe off both of his boots. The smell of slightly dank water follows him as he walks, pulling his shirt over his head while he veers into the kitchen. "Not only was Feainna having a fit when we couldn't find the other chocobos, I was practicing a bit of water magic when she almost bowled me over and erupted the bloody spell!"

That is, to explain why he is completely soaked through, head to toe, and throwing his wet shirt at Geralt to put on the stove to dry. "However, happily I can make you a cup of the most placid water you can imagine if you ever wish --"

He's passed through the kitchen by then and quite suddenly stops, rewinding his way back into the kitchen to see there's a man at their table.

"Oh, hello John," he says, then begins walking again, with a casual air he must have had for many of their meetings when he was a spritely little god; a completely unconscious thing until it quite suddenly isn't, and he's jumping back into the kitchen, spraying water everywhere as he throws up his arms. "John, you cheeky shit, what the fuck are you doing here?" Jaskier, having already forgotten about the whole soaked ordeal and his present shirtlessness, rushes over to give him a hug with crushing insistence. "I mean, seriously, what the fuck are you doing here? How --" He looks to Geralt over John's shoulder with suspicion. "Did you kidnap him? What the hell were you thinking?"

The majority of the furniture in the house possess a rustic quality that hearkens back to the cabin they sometimes shared. It is, frankly, because Geralt has built much of the chairs and tables and beds here, too, not out of necessity but for something to do. He's not a man who settles and now that he has, for over three summers, his hands often itch for more to do while he's home.

"Depends. Do you consider heating a pot cooking?" His smile is fond. He can cook a passable soup or grill some rabbit, but as for this meal, no. It's courtesy of Sam, with whom Geralt exchanges the meat he hunts for a pot of something home cooked. Which means that it's excellent in flavour.

He's about to offer John a drink when he hears footsteps he recognizes immediately as Jaskier's. Normally, he does not bother glancing up nor even greeting the bard, but he's not a fool and he realizes that he has not told Jaskier about John's arrival. And that Jaskier will, with no hesitation, comment upon it.

It is what it is.

He continues to stir the pot while Jaskier says his piece, tilting a little to the side to try and fail to avoid the spray of water.

"I fetched him last night," he replies mildly. "There was some trouble in Thorne."

Unfortunately for John, Jaskier does not remember to let him go first before he starts unleashing all the suspicions he's had of Geralt for ages. First of all: that he's an absolute bastard and an agent of chaos, and not capital letter chaos, just the sort of chaos that exists in the world to, quite personally, fuck with his life, in a very personal manner.

"Fetched? Fetched? You talk about this brilliant, lovely man like he was a dog you found out in the desert!"

Now he finally lets go of John to go over to Geralt, slapping him on the shoulder to look at his face. Then he whips his head back to John. There's dots, once foreign dots but now quickly becoming localized, that he's connecting. "What the fuck do you mean, trouble? You mean the war that is starting? That trouble? For fuck's sake, Geralt, if they gave awards for understatements, you would be crushed under the weight of the bloody thing!" He turns back to John, his expression quickly turning apologetic. "I'm so sorry you've had to deal with him. I don't know where you came in, but if you've had to spend even more than an hour alone with him, it's a miracle you haven't expired from his personal interpretation of humour. How are you? I haven't seen you, since --" He gestures wildly with his hands as if this will perfectly describe the moment their 800 year future began crumbling in a giant magical storm. "How, how did you escape from Thorne? I know it was an escape more than it was not."

Thorne does not let Summoned go. Especially not now. Did he take advantage of the war, perhaps?

Jaskier swings back quite suddenly to Geralt. "And you! You have a best friend -- in the world, might I add -- with an exquisite, specific experience in smuggling, the very skill you needed to bring a man from Thorne here, and you don't even tell me you're bringing him? You're going to be lucky if you survive the night, Witcher. I may be poisoning your bowl of soup specifically." He turns back to John. "Please know I have no wish to harm you and it will only specifically be Geralt's, and I will continue to do so until I find the exact formula to give a Witcher dysentery, so don't skim off his portions. Which has nothing to do with you, I'm very glad you've made it here safely."

Edited 2024-10-14 02:48 (UTC)

John is about to make a comment about his own talents for cooking, or lack thereof, when Jaskier enters and he finds himself swept into the whirlwind of the other man's presence (and soggy, shirtless embrace). A smile breaks across John's face as he raises his arms to return the hug, not minding a little dampness, in the name of friendship.

John, to his credit, does not realize that Geralt has not prepared Jaskier for any of this. Though he is quickly coming to that realization, the more questions that are pelted his way. He raises his eyebrows slightly, especially at the explanation that Geralt does offer, but then again, it is rather typically Geralt.

He takes a breath and thinks about intervening, but Jaskier is off again and John simply -- allows it to happen. A small smile twisting at the edges of his mouth as he watches Jaskier oscillate from verbally dressing the other man down and apologizing to John himself. Oh, but he has missed this bard.

Jaskier has peppered him with so many questions John does not quite know where to begin, but he figures he has to start somewhere.

"Very technically," he says with the curve of a smile, "he did find me out in the middle of the desert, but that's only because that's where the portal chose to spit me out."

John's expression sobers slightly, as he continues, "The situation in Thorne... Has grown too volatile. First the coup, and then the attacks." He flicks his eyes across the kitchen, toward Geralt. "A few nights ago, my company was ordered to report to the frontlines. I -- cannot fight for a cause I do not believe in. Not when I know that there are those I care for on the other side." He glances back to Jaskier, spreading his hands as if to say, thus I find myself here.

Obviously, there was quite a lot more involved.

Here they go.

Geralt takes a breath, then releases it audibly. Then he returns to serenely stirring the pot of soup. He could list the reasons he did not inform Jaskier, but the truth is, this isn't about that and they both know it. ("They both" being he and Jaskier; John has not been sufficiently forewarned of...however the fuck one might describe the relationship between he and the bard, but, hm.

He's a quick learner.)

He lets John address Jaskier's long list of concerns. The only thing Geralt adds is, "Yen took care of it."

One may accuse him of deliberately adding fuel to the fire. That may or may not be true, but Geralt's lips do twitch just the smallest hint from behind the scraggly curtain of hair that's fallen loose of the leather cord. In any case, Yen was the more logical choice. What could Jaskier have done to locate a portal-capable mage in Nott from here?

Although—

"Besides, you helped pay his way." He's most definitely stoking the fire. It was partly Jaskier's money, though, in the sense that Geralt's coin earned from hunting goes into the pile of gold that Jaskier keeps, seeing as Geralt has no interest in squirelling away funds for a future beyond the next week.

He whisks the pot off the stove, now steaming hot. His gaze shifts to Jaskier as though the bard has not just finished threatening him with shitting himself to death. "Breakfast?"

Obviously, there was much more involved. It's a bit like how Nadine and Julie got here, then. A wild escape. A portal. Into the bloody desert, even! He could have been killed. Or worse.

The gasp Jaskier takes physically makes him take a step back, the feathers in his hair making themselves known as they fluff up and stand on end. "You told Yennefer? And not me? My gods, by the time I'm done with you I'm going to have a whole new near-death experience to add to my ballad."

There's a crack of what is unmistakably something akin to thunder, and a small amount of rain begins to fall onto Geralt's head.

A small evolution of his water magic that manages to drip only onto Geralt's head. And maybe a bit in his soup.

Jaskier crosses his arms and stalks away, planning on stomping out until he stops to scoop Mog up into his arms, who greets him with several chirps. The gryphon appears to be psychic, because Jaskier apparently calms with the weight of him in his arms again. "John, as much as I respect your desires, just know you could do better." He says it like a sing-song, taking a seat next to him. He ignores Geralt, fully expecting him to serve all of them. "You made a wise decision, I think. But have you thought of what you'll be doing here? I cannot say the military here is any more trustworthy."

John has to hold back what amusement might otherwise show on his face at Jaskier's display. From the feathers fluffing up in his hair (now that is new), to the little thunderstorm he has appear over Geralt's head. Luckily for John, he has been in politics, so he manages to temper his expression fairly well.

As Jaskier settles down next to him with the little gryphon, John offers him a somewhat apologetic smile. Only somewhat, however, because he is not really sorry to be here or to have escaped Thorne. The two are mutually exclusive ideas. Ever since Geralt had planted the idea in his head, the thought had been growing. The desire to take him up on it. Not only to free himself from everything he had found himself entangled in over there but also -- to be here. Together, at last.

"I..." he starts, glancing at Geralt somewhat sheepishly before shaking his head. "I will admit I had not quite thought that far ahead just yet. Although I think perhaps I have learned my lesson, as far as enlisting to fight for a cause that I myself do not wholly believe in."

Really? Geralt raises an eyebrow and plucks a small bone off the counter. He throws it with a Witcher's aim directly at Jaskier's forehead.

Do better, his arse. Said as though Jaskier were also not in his bed every other night.

Perhaps he should have taken John someplace less, hm. Prone to chaos. For his first night here. Then again, chaos is all Geralt knows with both Yen and Jaskier in his life so John may as well begin acclimating now. He does miss his quiet forest, truly.

"Plenty of work outside the army here." John may be a nobleman but Geralt has learnt he's far from the idle sort. He expects John will have no trouble finding something to do. "The war's taken workers away, anyhow. Stables are missing a few hands."

Well. He assumes it was the war. Maybe they simply vanished or defected to Thorne or...whatever the fuck else it might've been. He isn't certain how things are in Thorne but the Free Cities have often been a place of constant change.

He sets the stew on the table, shaking off his damp hair and making no effort to avoid spraying Jaskier with it.

The bone strikes Jaskier right between the eyes, making him drop Mog (who curses at him with a squawk) as Jaskier bends over to hold the spot it hit with a fuck. Ow. "That was absolutely uncalled for." Jaskier gives John a look as if to say, can you believe how immature he is? As if there's not a rain cloud stubbornly following him around the room.

Jaskier heals the growing bruise on his head with a touch of chaos and a gentle sparkling from his fingers, then crosses his legs as if it never happened in the first place.

"So, you've only come with Geralt's illustrious company in mind?" He wipes water from his face and makes sure it rains even harder on Geralt, before the magic sizzles out and the rain stops. Not John's most intelligent decision to date, he can imagine, but it's true enough that Geralt has quite the stable life. A place to stay, steady coin, a very rich friend. "Come, you can't really be offering him up as a stablehand. Whatever you're interested in doing, John, I'm certain I'll know the right person to introduce you to."

[ CLOSED ] pack up your tents to travel

— cid.

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if you think about it fucking in the tub is like their senior water aerobics class

i hate how real this is.

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thank u for waiting....nsfw aerobics for real now.

THANK YOU FOR WAITING...

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— river.

omg i completely lost track of this link, i'm so sorry!!

im so sorry for the wait in return ;;

♡♡♡

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— john; jaskier.

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drives my honda and crashes into this thread

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thank u for the patience ;;;

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