abraxaslogs | Forging On [Nov. Catch-all]

Entry tags:

Forging On [Nov. Catch-all]

Who: Hector, open
What: Hector's finally given up on one sad-sack dhampir, so he's on his own in the Free Cities.
When: The month of November
Where: Cadens, the Horizon
Warnings: Always language, will update if other things come up

Moving Out- Cadens

[In the first few days of the month, while the dust was still settling from the Eifstide disaster, Hector is out on the streets. He's got an overstuffed satchel on his back, with a hammer, an extra pair of boots, and various assorted trinkets hanging off in a way that suggests he's not out for a day trip. He has the air of a man with all his worldly possessions bundled up on his person.

There is also a frog on his shoulder and a desert fox following at his heels. Both have eyes that glow blue, and on closer inspection, have the signs of having been formerly dead. It's fine, they got better.

Hector fumbles a scrap of paper from a pocket, trying to keep his balance under the weigh of his bag.]

Why the hell is it so hard to find cheap lodgings that don't mind a few pets? [He grumbles as he ticks a line off of his list.]

Moving On- Cadens

[Technically, Hector's place of work is a simple smithy. Forging and repairing items made out of metal. Magic isn't such a big deal in the Free Cities as it is in Thorne. However, after the city was beset by ghosts, there are customers who are beginning to see the appeal of having a protective amulet or two on hand.

So the sign at the forge has been amended to "Mayall's Smithy& Magical Sundries. Inside, Hector is working. Need something fixed? Need something enchanted? If he doesn't know how to do it, give him time and he'll figure it out.

Need something undead? That may take a little time while he secures materials (bring your own corpse to expedite the process!) *Warning, his forging is not as effective as it used to be back home.]

Figuring Things Out- Cadens

[In his free time, Hector will be scouring libraries and museums. He figured out on Eifstide that he no longer has a connection to Hell to call forth or control spirits, but some sort of afterlife must exist. The spirits have to be somewhere when they aren't running amok and ruining parties. So he's researching where.

You may come across him reading, pestering the librarians or curators about increasingly specific questions on the metaphysical, or, when he gets desperate, eying the restricted area with a mind to sneak in.]

And Definitely Not Sulking- The Horizon

[Hector's domain is mostly unchanged from its inception. It is a simple wooden cottage in the woods, which somehow opens up into a workshop and a library once you step inside. Dark clouds hang overhead, however, with the rumble of far off thunder, and inside, the various dogs he's conjured up loll about, listless and letting out occasional whines.

Hector pours over his work inside, taking no notice of the signs of his foul mood that bleed out into his little world. He's too close to it to see it. When he reaches a point of frustration, he stalks out into the woods, occasionally straying far enough to enter into someone else's domain.]

Wild Card

[If you'd like a closed starter, lmk. I'm happy to pop something personalized in the comments.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Maxwell never thought he'd be a man in need of a smithy, let alone any magical sundries. Fortunately, he's only come in search of the former, for the time being. He'll adjust to being in a land of witchcraft and wizardry one step at a time, thank you, and the unexplained rise of the undead over Eifstide used up that allotment of steps for a good month, at least.

At any rate: just a boring ol' regular blacksmith. That's what he hopes to find here.

"Hello! Anyone home?"

The sound of a hammer ringing out against metal stops as Maxwell calls out.

"Just a minute."

A few more strikes, then a sizzle of heated metal being dropped into water. Hector steps out into the front room of the smithy, swiping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth.

"What can I do for you?"

The sounds of the forge. It's the first time Maxwell can say that he's been in a place like this, several centuries at least from the environment he's used to - and yet there is something comforting and familiar about the clanging of tools and the smell of superheated metal meeting water and air.

Far more than reanimated corpses, at any rate.

He smiles amiably when the man steps out, extending a hand in greeting without regard for the soot and the sweat.

"The forge master, I take it? Or do you prefer the term blacksmith? Call me Father Maxwell," he introduces himself, chatty as ever. He's dressed almost entirely in black, with that standard issue uniform from the Cadens outpost under his coat.

"Lookin' for someone who's at least half-decent at making blades. That you?"

Hector takes the proffered hand. If he leaves a smudge of soot on the customer's skin as he shakes, that's the other man's problem to deal with.

"'Forgemaster' is fine." It's the first time he's been called that in reference to mundane smithing, so that's a novelty. It puts him in a slightly better mood.

He doesn't call Father Maxwell anything, but he meets his banter with a bit of a smile. "'Half-decent'? I'll offer three-quarters at least."

That's practically competent! Blades aren't Hector's forte, but he knows his way around the forge and swords are a rather straightforward application of those skills.

"What type of blade are you looking for?"

[While he didn't exactly pick at the question of what on earth happened between the necromancer and the dhampir, Jaskier has done his best to sort of be around to pick up what pieces he could. Once Hector showed up at the place he shares with Geralt and Ciri looking haggard (and, if he's honest, a bit lost), it was inevitable he'd be involved.

There's a nebulous sort of term for what they are, but at the very least, Hector is his friend. And he is not leaving his friend to sleep in the road, though Geralt gave his usual grumble about it. Which likely was not related to Hector at all, really.

It works out that Geralt is hardly at home between hunts, and he and Jaskier have no qualms about sleeping on the floor, though finding a place for the fox was a bit more work. When Hector shows up, Jaskier offers their bed without pause, even going so far as to offer a bag of coin for a room, should he want time for himself.

And now, with their additional ability the Singularity has given them, he sends a few scripted words to Hector's eyes, hoping he'll respond.

How does the search goeth, Hector? If you're around, I'll come meet you.

Why not? He has fresh coin from a new round of performances, though less than he was making before his incident with Ciri, now that he can't play as long without that horrible ache in his arm. And, perhaps, he may have been hiding the long, ragged scar up his arm from Hector alone. He has enough of his own troubles. He has money, time, and... a need for some company.]

[Hector is still getting used to the Singularity's newest oddity (it's rather different from the communication mirrors he's accustomed to), but he does take a moment to step into an alleyway and respond to Jaskier's message.]

No luck yet. On the east side, near that tavern with the ugly duck sign. [It's technically supposed to be an eagle, but a realistic depiction it is not.

He sets down his pack as he waits. Jaskier has been supporting him, in his own way, dancing carefully around the cause of Hector's sudden displacement with the care of either a diplomat or just a man very used to testy companions. Hector is trying to find his own place quickly for Jaskier's sake as well as his own; he doesn't want to ruin a good thing by putting too much strain on the bard and his strange household of pale warriors.

His work at the smith has yielded him coin to pay for lodgings, but finding a longterm place that will allow his pets has proven more difficult than he'd anticipated.

But maybe Jaskier will be his good luck charm. If nothing else, seeing him will wash away a little of the day's frustrations.]

[Ah. There he is, the words spilling across the blank notebook in his lap. At least he can trust someone to not ignore his writing. (The very thought of it turns a sick ache through him.) He cannot stay home hoping something will happen. And he's... he's tried all he can.

He hasn't given up. But he's exhausted.

I'm on the way.

He peels himself out of their very cold bed, manages to pull on some clothes, and perhaps look like he isn't a mess himself. Then he's outside in the crisp air of Cadens. Ugly duck sign? Oh. Actually, he knows the one.

And there he is. Looking at bit like how Jaskier feels. Still, his lips turn into an easy smile to see him, with both frog and fox companions. At least Hector isn't alone out here. It might be nice, having the pets. Having someone else to focus on.]

Afternoon, my friend. [He offers a hand for the fox to sniff, already having met its acquaintance when it slept on his pillows. And then he's reaching for Hector, to pull him into an embrace.

Not, for once, for Hector's sake.] I cannot imagine why anyone would turn down such a charmer.

[Hector lets Jaskier pull him in. Jaskier is tactile, and nobody here seems to mind two men embracing, so there's no reason not to indulge him.]

I tried explaining that this little one can catch just as many mice as a cat, but the last proprietor was unconvinced.

[Hector assumes Jaskier meant the fox. He is certainly no charmer.]

He gave me another address to try, though. This one may be promising. Apparently the owner is eerily unflappable.

[Which is precisely what Hector needs in a landlady, if he's being honest.]

[Clearly he doesn't mean the fox! (The fox is cute, though.) Jaskier gives him a little squeeze, pulling away, even though he would much rather stay in the touch and pretend everything was going swell, while it completely wasn't.

If he can't do anything for Geralt right now, he wants to do something for someone. And Hector is important to him. Very much so.]

Indeed. An undead cat may have been a bit easier to sell than a fox.

[Not that he blames him for saving the fellow. Look at him! Adorable. And mostly intact, even. It stands to reason, however, that the events that happened on Eifstide may have swayed local minds even further against the undead.

A bit unfair. None of the wraiths were animals.]

Oh, that does sound promising. I don't suppose you should need a handsome, persuasive bard for that sort of work?

[Usually it'd be fun and flirtatious, but he can't still the flat note in his voice. Regardless, he could do it. Certainly the bag of coin he's carrying with him would be just as persuasive.]

[The words are what he's come to expect from Jaskier, but the tone is... off. Hector looks more closely at Jaskier's face, trying to decide if he can trust his own abysmal ability to judge people's underlying motives.]

I can't see how it could hurt. [Jaskier is much better at charming people than Hector is. Maybe he could extoll the merits of the fox.

The niggling feeling doesn't subside, though. He's been so wrapped up in his own troubles lately, has he missed something or caused Jaskier some offense?]

...is everything alright?

I'd like to think my presence is far from hurtful.

[Look, he's making jokes! Wait, that was a joke, right? Oh, fuck, he's really awful at this. Can a man not hold it together for a single outing when his best friend is missing (presumably alive?) After all the investigation, the... the not-so-accidental murders... and even Alucard's help, they're not closer to finding Geralt than they were a week ago.

Jaskier runs a nervous hand through his hair, which is probably answer enough.]

Things have been. [He stops. Looks for the word.] Stressful. Lately. [Oh, yeah, he's acting totally normal. And mostly he sort of wants to take Hector home and ask him to stay, if only so Jaskier cannot be alone with his thoughts for a moment. Almost dying only weeks ago, and now this shit.

Terribly selfish of him.] I think I'm handling it all right. [Yes. Absolutely all right. He includes the one night he spent eight straight hours lying among his vineyard in the Horizon, playing with the movements of the stars, until the wolf that stays in Geralt's domain showed up and he had to make a very prompt exit before he broke.] Maybe not. But that won't stop me from helping you, of course. You needn't worry.

['Joke' is being generous, Jaskier. Hector's lips flatten out into a line.

Grasping for words, messing up the hair he usually takes care to preen, admitting to any level of negative emotion... No, Jaskier is not alright. He looks... exhausted at the least.]

My search can wait. I can let a room at an inn. Have you eaten today?

['Needn't worry', his ass. He's going to get to the bottom of whatever the source of Jaskier's stress is. He's more accustomed to caring for pets than people, but the principles should be the same. Food, shelter, safety, affection. If Jaskier isn't seeing to those necessities for himself, Hector will simply have to step in and do them for him.]

[Oh, no. The neutral face of displeasure. He was not doing a good job of this, was he?

He was only a very good liar when he was singing.]

Eaten? [He's pretty sure that's the first time anyone has ever asked him that, ever. He thinks of the ten loaves of bread he's made in the last few days because of nothing else to do and a frenetic energy that needed to go into something. Has he eaten any of them?]

Er. Possibly. No.

[He's not sure, actually, which he knows is about to further deepen that face.] You don't need to worry about me, Hector. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself. [And making more bread. Which is what he'd be doing now, probably. "Taking care" is relative, obviously.] I had wine for breakfast.

[That counts.]

Wine is not breakfast, Jaskier.

[It's never a good sign when Hector is the responsible one of any given pair.

He stuffs his list of addresses back into his pocket so he has hands to take Jaskier by the elbow and steer him towards the nearest food stall.]

You call tell me what is going on while we eat.

Wine is a fruit! And thus, breakfast.

[This is what alcoholics say. Oh, no. Is he really turning into that type of person? Who sucks down their sorrows with liquor? Ugh. No. He doesn't want to be stinky and swollen. (He's already stinky and swollen from a few missed baths and a wretched amount of stress.

Please just lie to him about these truths, Hector.)]

Look, I don't mean to -- to take away from your own troubles -- [Except here he is, being very easily led about. He's absolutely exhausted and no longer wishes to make any decision of his own. All this effort he's put into finding his friend to no avail is soul-sucking. Perhaps literally. (He knows what it's like to have one's soul sucked.)]

All right, fine. Fine. [The touch settles him enough. That's all he needs. Just. Quiet, and food, and a touch, and no prickly comments or foolish hopes.] What are we getting? If you must bully me, I will pay. [If he's so bad that even Hector is showing concern, perhaps he needs to try harder. Like. Pick something out.] Maybe... bacon...?

[Protein. Good for energy. Nailed it.]

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Moving out

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forgot to mention, dated to sometime after Geralt's disappearance

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Closed to Ciri (Backdated to the beginning of Nov)

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