abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] tell them that the villains on my list

Entry tags:

[ CLOSED ] tell them that the villains on my list

Who: Ciri, Jaskier, and others
What: Geralt has gone missing. Ciri and Jaskier are on the case.
Where: Around Cadens, the desert outside it, perhaps the other Free Cities; possibly Horizon and Network
When: Mid-November
Warnings: violence, gore, dismemberment

If you'd like to plot out a thread, please PM Ciri or Jaskier's journals, or catch us on Plurk at

belleteyn and

scathefire respectively!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[When Jaskier describes the event as "the absolutely fucking last thing I needed," he believes, in retrospect, it was an understatement. He had no other words for it. Geralt being gone without a word was, honestly, not even a thing that merited his attention. It was what he did. He just. Fucked off sometimes. And why would anyone worry, when he was more than capable of killing anything that looked at him the wrong way?

But both he and Ciri knew Geralt would not abandon Roach. Not to the desert. Not to the wilds. His horses were replaceable, of course, but they were well taken care of. He'd only known Geralt to take a new one when the last had grown ill or been grievously injured during a hunt.

Wait, no. There as an addendum to that previous statement. The last fucking thing he needed was him putting everything into not allowing Ciri to storm off into the desert alone on a wild chase that she might not return from. And though it wasn't fair of him, he had to use it at the last second: You can't leave me alone here. What if something happens? More ghosts? I can't fight a bloody ghost!

It wasn't an idle threat, considering.

So she stayed. It was enough time for him to run over to Sam's in order to ask for the aid of Red, Sam's bird, and then he'd had to juggle all of... all of that. Everything Sam was holding back that he hadn't realized.

Safe to say, Jaskier was hanging on by a thread.

Unfortunately, with Ciri tied up tighter than a succubus in church, his only verbal companion of late is Red, who is about the only one keeping Jaskier relatively well away from something drastic, like shouting curses at the sun.]

Here you are, my little friend. [He feeds the bird on his arm little strips of meat, which is a must-have on any desperate bid into the unknown.] I think you're very fortunate you have all these lovely feathers. I bet it's much cooler for you.

[There was a question if the bird he'd crafted himself actually felt temperature, but. Well. He glances at Ciri, with her pale hair sticking to her forehead, looking about as miserable as he feels. Even having abandoned his doublet (stuffed into a saddleback) and his nearly sheer chemise, he's still coated in sweat.

Jaskier chews his lip. He isn't afraid using that power at home, growing pots of herbs for their meals, for selling, where they're small and easily controlled (even if it has always felt natural.) But here, out in the desert, where the sweat and heat is stinging his scar, it's impossible to forget what happened last time he was here.

How much free, open land there is. Even if it's all shitty, sticky sand.

Red hops onto his shoulder as he stands, talons gently holding around his shoulder.] Here, my dear. [And it's Ciri he's speaking to now, moving behind her. His hands pull at those bristle shrubs, drawing on -- well, whatever it is that swirls in him now. The bushes thicken with sharp-edged leaves, but they're leaves nonetheless, and with a bit of effort they pull up high enough to craft a good line of shade over the two of them.

It's nearly immediate relief to be out of the direct sun.]

You should drink, too. It'll upset your stomach if you don't.

[He's simply searching for something to say. For anything to do that might be helpful.]

[ Ciri looks up, watching him use his magic on the plants. They grow, despite everything. She doesn't comment, doesn't thank him, but also doesn't look nervous or uncomfortable with the magic, even out here. It was never Jaskier's plants defending him that had upset her then.

When he urges her to drink, Ciri reaches for her waterskin, wetting her mouth. ]

I know where there's a stream. We should hit it by nightfall.

Geralt probably made camp someplace around there.

[ Something must have happened when he had, Ciri surmises. Roach hadn't had her bit. And she looked like she might have been tied by her lead for the night (thankfully, not too tightly or not to anything too sturdy). Geralt would have camped near water, and there's not much water around that comes to mind in this direction. ]

[It may be very obvious that he's looking for those signs -- that Ciri is bothered by him using it, this magic. Though, to be fair, she came out of its last use much better than he did himself.

She isn't. Which he tacks to her bravery over anything. Or her insanity. He thinks it's very fair to accept she is both insane and brave, if what she wanted to become was a Witcher.

He takes a seat again next to her, his own waterskin in his hand. With the whole wraith thing, at least he can rest in the fact that, as far as his hypothesis had been proven, those vines were there to protect him. Like an instinct. A lashing out that a body would do, its final thrashes, before unconnsciousness or death. This simply happens to be magic. That he. Didn't ask.

He sighs, drippling a bit of the water into a cupped leaf for Red. Does he need water? Better he have it. He is, after all, quite real.]

As he always does. Man loves his little creeks. [And it's the only thing that makes sense out here. Even Jaskier would be a madman to decide to camp in the dunes with all this sand. It may be cool at night, but once the sun rose, the chances of finding water were nothing.

He folds his legs underneath him. What is he supposed to say? Or is there really anything to say? It will change nothing. And if she's anything like Geralt (which she is), she's most likely to either snap at him or insist that words are fruitless.

Fruit. He could go for fruit.]

Do you know it precisely? I assume he took you out here. I'm sure Red will be happy to find us for it, should... should things have changed out here.

[Ah, see? He's learning. Keeping the topic to the task at hand.]

Yes. I know it.

[ What Ciri doesn't say is that the area is near where she'd found Geralt when Jaskier had been hurt. When she'd accidentally almost blown his whole damn arm off. Water's scarce out here, so it makes sense to keep to it (but thankfully not impossible to find, and she is grateful for that, considering deserts are somewhat of a very unpleasant memory for her).

When Jaskier sits beside her, Ciri offers the bag of dried meat. ]

Can you grow edible plants?

[ She asks suddenly, ignoring the part about Red. They can send the bird out to scout when they're back on the road; right now, it's too hot for any of them, assuming the magic bird is susceptible to such things. Jaskier keeps feeding it and giving it water, so Ciri has assumed it must be. She's also... not entirely sure if the bird is Sam's or Jaskier's, at this point, and she feels wary of trusting it too much. Perhaps she still hasn't quite forgiven the creature for incessantly following her around when she'd wanted space, and Sam for finding her. ]

[Well, there's certainly no need to question further. He clears his throat. If you ask him, both of them would rather be dead than doing this, and somehow the light back and forth he's had with Ciri (that he's forced with her) feels like a dead weight they'd dropped somewhere far behind.

Yes, yes, there's no need for words, not when Something is happening.

But gods, he's tired.

He doesn't expect her to speak again, though he's satisfied enough to take her offering of more. However, her question sends the smallest spark of something in him. It's not hope, exactly, but it's close. As if she can pretend he's anything else but a burden, having come with her.

Yet he could not fathom being fucking left alone in Cadens, hoping that she finds him. Hoping this is all a mistake.]

Yes, of course. [He pauses. He can in their home, with little potted plants. Will they still appear here, where life itself is rare?] Er. I'm pretty sure.

[Something easy. He digs down a bit in the sand to reach something slightly cooler, cupping his hands, rings shining in the sunlight, over it. Jaskier closes his eyes, humming one of his songs under his breath. As he does, he pulls on that core, this slithering, tight mass of magic that lays in his chest, waiting for its change. As he pulls his hands up, a mess of thorny vines follows the movement. As it grows larger, spreading out, small and pale pink flowers begin sprouting, opening. Masses of red and black begin growing, weighing down the vines with berries. Blackberries.

There. Ooh. A surprisingly good amount, too. He releases a breath, sweat beading at his temples. His arm aches, but otherwise, the magic takes nothing else from him.] How's that?

[ Ciri only nods again, watching him as he prepares to try his magic. She knows he can help plants grow in pots, but out here-- she isn't sure. And apparently, neither is he.

It's in part to pass the time, give both of them something else to focus on. But it's practical, too. And when Jaskier is able to pull a blackberry bush from the hard, dry earth, Ciri actually smiles, if only faintly. There's something like relief in that look, and a respect in her eyes when she looks at Jaskier. Ciri doesn't think his magical specialties are silly or useless; for someone who never even had an aptitude until he came here, Jaskier's progress is impressive, to say the least. ]

Very good.

With this, we can stretch our water and our food. Make it last a few more days if needed.

[ We can keep going, as long as it takes. ]

Have extra on hand, too.

[ For Geralt. ]

A few days? [It's not exactly appropriate, but there's both whine and worry in his voice that slithers through the words. He didn't -- he wants to imagine they'll find Geralt much faster than that. The stream can't be that much further. He was not bloody made for this.

But he wasn't going back. Not without the Witcher.]

A shame I can't bring it with us. [He offers the bush a hand, and the vines slither around him like an embrace, the thorns never scratching his skin.] You'll be fine on your own here, my friend. I'm sure some desert birds will be happy to make your acquaintance.

[Luckily, Jaskier speaking to plants is not a sign the desert is getting to him; it's simply easier to focus on than all the weight in his heart. He plucks a few berries for Red and sets them aside for him, finding the berries regrown by the time he's returned to the plant.

At least some things are working out.] Plenty of extra, I'd say. [He lays out a handkerchief -- Jaskier, even on rescue missions, does not leave home without one -- and packs a few handfuls into it. If only bread and cheese grew on bushes, he'd have a full meal. Brie. A nice brie wheel.

He plucks off a bunch of berries, handing them to Ciri, also carefully wrapped up. As he sits beside her again and Red eats his berries, he looks at her. Thinks of offering her an embrace, but rather sure she would not take it.] I'll make as many bushes as it takes us.

[To get there. To find him.

Even if he wants to believe, in his heart, it won't... it won't be like that. Like the fear he'd seen in Sam. Jaskier did not fear for Geralt. He won't start now.

(It's too late.)]

[ Ciri nods in thanks, taking the berries and eating a few of them before putting the rest away in her pack. Jaskier's whining is ignored -- or at least not commented on. She watches him speak to the plant, then looks out beyond him toward the horizon, considering the position of the sun. ]

Why don't you take a cutting to bring with us? I imagine it'd be easier than growing the whole thing from nothing every time.

[ The conversation is mostly to fill the time. She's itching to go, to get back on the road and stop wasting time. She wills the sun to set faster, but it does not obey, not former princesses or would-be Witchers or even Elder blood. Though the temperatures aren't as hot as they were when they first arrived in this area of the world, it's still too bright and dry and the sun still beats down with a brutal intensity that puts them and their horses at risk of heat exhaustion. So Ciri waits, each minute of the waiting pressing under her skin like nails.

They talk of plants, of the temperature and the desert, of various beasts they may need to watch out for as they travel -- but never of their goal. Of Geralt.

Ciri refuses to waste energy on what-ifs and wondering (distracting, useless things, letting the panic seep in); she is focused only on finding him. ]

Ah. [He blinks, his tone indicating he hadn't thought of that.] A fine idea, actually. I'll do that.

[He wasn't sure if that was true, but it was sound logic. Even if it was his magic, he hadn't... exactly practiced it as much as he should have. Not like his birds, not like the spell that maintained Red. He plucks a reasonable tangle of vines down, watching as they tie themselves tighter for him.

Pocket berries. Amazing.

Unfortunately, messing about with the bushes doesn't pass as much time as he'd like, but it does give him the opportunity to glut on berries and fill Red up. He sends the falcon out to look around a few times, simply to make sure the beasts of the desert don't draw too close to their temporary camp.

And at sunset, as the desert begins to cool, they pack up the horses (newly fed on berries, their muzzles stained purple) and slip back onto their saddles, back on the path. Jaskier has yet to have the misfortune of traversing a godsforsaken desert until now, so he can only hope Ciri does know where this stream lay. If she's even half as good at Geralt at tracking, she'll find it.

He can't ignore the niggling ideas of what they'll find there. Geralt, hale and whole, annoyed they've come to find him. Or no evidence Geralt was ever there.

As they ride, and far from the last time, Jaskier tries to send a message to Geralt through the wave of the Singularity's magic. As short as he can keep it, even though he wishes to scream large, capital letters at him. Geralt, where are you? Where the fuck are you?

And like every message before, there is no response. A door firmly shut in his face. While perhaps that should have been a terrible sign, for Geralt... it didn't really mean much. Jaskier had long discovered Geralt had found his way to keep people's words out of his head.

He doesn't update her. Either she knows, or she doesn't wish to. Unspoken is their promise to broach the topic of exactly what they're doing out here. Even Jaskier respects it.

Mostly, he even stays quiet himself. All he gives Ciri is a reminder he's human and needs breaks -- a few moments on his own feet instead of his ass on the horse, and time for them to eat and drink again. Time to let the horses drink.

And then it's back on this Path that has no road. And, really, no destination outside Geralt.]

[ For her part, Ciri has tried reaching out several times as well -- but to no avail. Geralt either doesn't see, or cannot answer. She doesn't believe he would choose not to reply. Though she doesn't bother asking, Ciri knows Jaskier must have done all he could do as well, and if neither of them have news for the other, then this is the only choice. It's this, or sitting around and waiting, doing nothing. Ciri has never had much patience for that.

When they're on their way again -- with the afternoon sun long on the horizon and fading into dusk, the air cooling to a pleasant temperature for only a couple of hours before it plunges into cold -- Ciri pushes the horses faster.

We should reach it by nightfall, she'd said, but the days are getting shorter and the nights longer and harsher, and they still have a ways to go. Even with the brightness of the moon enough for humans to see by when there's no further shade to obscure it, there's only so much they can get out of the horses in the dark. Though Ciri is every bit as human as Jaskier, she is not accommodating. (Walk if you're saddle-sore, but keep moving. You don't need to stand still to eat. If we don't reach water by the time we lose all light, I promise you you'll feel even worse.) Still, even with the strained silence between them or any complaining Jaskier might do, directed at her or muttered to Red, she is privately grateful that he's with her. She doesn't want to imagine being alone out here, with only thoughts of what might have happened to Geralt to keep her company.

Things are easier, in some ways, when they reach the water and the sparse vegetation and slightly more forgiving temperatures that come with it; they can make camp, drink and eat, make a fire and rest, even wash up a little. In other ways, they are more difficult -- because now, instead of simply traveling to a destination, they are actively searching for signs of others passing through. It's much slower going, but Ciri no longer pressures Jaskier to keep up. She spends most of her time on foot, running ahead to look closely at any perceived hoofprints or broken branches. They find remnants of campfires on occasion, some clearly older than others. Bones and scraps. Once, the picked-clean carcass of some beast, bones bleaching in the sun, large scavenger birds circling overhead.

The flatlands give way to hills and tall rocks, even the occasional spindly tree, cacti of several varieties dotting the brown ground in between. Snakes and lizards are a fairly common sighting, but most of them aren't aggressive; the ones that are, Ciri takes care of before Jaskier can even see them, on most occasions. The hairy spiders are large, but slow, and don't bother them except to look alarming. Ciri instructs Jaskier to keep an eye out for certain dangers, giant scorpions and large, armored beasts among them, but they get lucky. There's almost nothing out here, after all.

Until there is. It's approaching dusk again -- how long have they been out here? -- when Red flies back to Jaskier's arm with a warning screech. Ciri is ahead of him, leading her borrowed gelding by the reins; her free hand drifts toward her dagger. ]

What is it?

[ Can Jaskier actually understand the thing? She's not quite sure. Ciri narrows her eyes in an instinctive attempt to get them to see farther, but at this point, the rocky hills and long shadows make for a difficult long-distance view. ]

Do you smell... smoke?

[It's foolish sentiment that Jaskier allows hope to grow the closer they get to the camp he's made. Of course he will be there. Geralt is not reliable for some things, but he can be relied upon simply to survive. And survive things he should never have been able to -- like the ghoul bite he'd come to Abraxas with. A wandering sorceress, he'd said, had been the one to save him.

Perhaps Jaskier had simply not accepted how close he'd been, then.

The things they find on the way there don't mean much. A picked beast -- perhaps something Geralt killed for meat, but just as likely a victim of any other predator out here. Hoofprints, yet the desert still had wagons and travelers.

He sends Red out every now and then for a better view of things, but as far as the bird can attempt to do so, there is nothing of note discovered. The corpses of things, either dried out or baking in the sun. Scant pushes, tangles of dead vines sometimes. Scorpions. (He has not seen any, luckily, but Red has apparently eaten a few.)

Now, though, when Red returns it's with a terrible noise. Jaskier pales. It's not that he understands the bird's language, but it's -- the bird is him, his, part of him, and he understands it intrinsically.

His heart goes still.] Blood. The camp, there's -- there's blood in his camp. And a sword.

[ For a moment, Ciri goes very still. Jaskier will see her back stiffen, shoulders tense; her fingers tighten on the wolf's head hilt of the silver dagger at her hip (a gift from Geralt, one she hasn't let leave her person since they set out, even when she sleeps).

She doesn't wait for any further details, if the bird can even give any.

Ciri vaults into the saddle and digs her heels into the gelding's flanks, forcing him into a shambling, startled lurch of a canter before driving him to a full gallop through the dried-up brush and up the hill. As soon as she crests it, she can see: the glow of a campfire up ahead, the curl of smoke against the grey-pink sky. It's the type of light that makes for particularly low visibility, hazy with the sand being kicked up by the horse, by the incessant wind that's been gusting all day. Ciri keeps her eyes on the firelight, presses herself down against her horse's neck, and hurtles down the slope as fast as the rough terrain will allow.

Jaskier will simply have to catch up. ]

[He should have kept it to himself.

Except he's far from the type who even can. Red is trying to explain the camp and he's -- he's trying not to pass out, actually, and he can blame it on the heat but it's not the heat at all. Blood. Geralt's blood. It has to be. And --]

There's --

[It's like his spirit slams back into his body, because time has passed, seconds he could not hold onto, and Ciri is already on her horse.] Ciri! No, wait!

[He curses, grabbing his own horse in an attempt to pull himself onto her back. Why do the people he knows do this? Just fuck off without listening to him?] Ciri!

[By the time he gets on his horse and gets her going, Ciri's nearly out of sight. As he rides, growing closer, he can see what Red saw: the curling smoke from their campfire. Evidence of the men that now littered Geralt's camp. He could kill Geralt, teaching her to ride like this, if only because there's no way he'll catch up.]

Red, go help her!

[The falcon takes off with a snap of his wings and a warcry. It doesn't matter who they are, or why they were in Geralt's camp.

Not when one of them was holding his sword.]

[ Time feels as though it's moving very slowly. Somewhere overhead, the bird screeches out a warning note.

In the dusty shadows of the waning sunlight, the silhouettes of roughly half a dozen men stand out against the bare landscape. Some sit around the campfire, with the scent of tobacco smoke and meat rising in the air, drinking and carousing. One is a short ways from the camp, by the stream. A couple more are crouched or standing around a pile of unclear, dark shapes on the ground, which solidify in a rush as reality snaps back into place. Saddlebags, blankets, a sheath.

The gleaming blade is free from it, catching the light. The hand that holds its hilt doesn't belong to its owner.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Ciri remembers only seeing the scene stretching out beneath her, and then descending upon the camp like a storm. She doesn't remember drawing her sword.

Not until the screaming starts.

The man swinging Geralt's sword around like a prize toy is her first target. Digging her heels into her horse's flanks, Ciri charges at him without slowing, her blade swinging from the side and up in a vicious arc that divests the bandit of his stolen weapon -- and about two-thirds of his arm. ]

[Jaskier knows exactly what he's walking into. Somehow, he simply knows, and has used the few scant moments as his horse's hooves dig into desert sand to prepare himself for it. Not because he has seen Ciri's temper like this, nor her in combat, but he can guess. She's Geralt's. Geralt trained her, and he has no reason to not believe it when even Geralt himself does.

He's seen what the Witcher can do. What he's done to men (men who, of course, had it coming.) And Jaskier grew up on tales of Blaviken. The carnage mens' bodies can leave behind.

The screams hit him before the scene itself does. In the feverish light of the desert sun, the splash of blood across the sand is vibrant. The screams, loud, even though there are no trees or structures to echo them from. Even the creek is barely a babble, a sort of metronome tone to Red's screeches as he dives from the skies, his talons catching the face of the closest man to Ciri, reacting to his compatriot's attack by grabbing the knife at his side.

All at once, there is a scrambling. Men yelling, reaching for swords and daggers. One takes a look at the severed arm and begins running. Red, arching in the sky with another cry, peels back down towards Ciri to defend her back. He catches another man on the ear, ripping it clean off.

He should be horrified. Probably. Yet it is not the first time a man has died in front of Jaskier attempting to steal his things. Because, undoubtedly, that's what they've done. Picked through Geralt's camp, stolen his things. His sword. They cannot be what bested Geralt. He would not leave his swords.

It's been mere seconds that pass. Two men on the ground, still. One clutching the stump of hanging flesh on the side of his head. One runs. Two more have retrieved their swords, facing Ciri, their faces a snarl.

He doesn't want to help. (Does he even need to?) But as he stares at them and Red cries out, the ground around them begins to sink. And out of the sinking, the dipping of the sand, rises thick, coiling, thorned vines, lashing around their ankles, their thighs.

It is not the killing he fears. Not seeing the bloodshed. Not even that somehow he is in the middle of it.

It's the very idea that if he allows anything to happen to Ciri, Geralt is going to fucking kill him.]

[ Sam's bird attacks with a viciousness Ciri doesn't expect, but she notices -- if only vaguely, out of the corner of her eye -- and finds herself appreciating the creature in a way she hadn't before. Good.

Her horse, on the other hand, is nowhere near so battle-ready as Red. His nostrils flare, and his head tosses violently, flecks of foam spitting from his curled lips as he screams and dances back despite Ciri's firm grim on the reins. He is too unsteady, too frightened -- nothing like her Kelpie, Ciri laments angrily not for the first time, swearing through gritted teeth as she fights to maintain control. With a vicious yank, she pulls the horse back around, but he reacts too slowly. A knife nicks his foreleg, and he rears, hooves wild in the air.

On the one hand, her horse's untrained terror lands with crushing force on the newly one-armed man who'd fallen to his knees beneath them, putting him out of his misery. On the other--

Ciri ends up on the ground.

She knows how to fall; she twists, landing on her shoulder with a grunt, keeping her sword above her, just in time to knock away a blow from the man with a knife. He's screaming obscenities at her (they all are), and the horse is snorting and stamping, and above them Red is screeching, and the screams continue. But it's all just noise. All around them, thick, thorn-covered vines rise up from the dirt to the sound of more screams and curses. Someone grabs a branch out of the campfire, as if that might be enough, brandishing it like some sort of holy charm as Jaskier's vines lash out at him, sparks flying.

Her swing was too wide, her sword arm flung too far to the side as she tries to get her bearings in the drawn-out moments, the stretched-out seconds between hitting the ground and rolling over. The knife slides back into her vision, the brigand's twisted snarl above. Rocks digging into the small of her back. The man's weight, twice her own, bearing down on top of her. Ciri twists, shoving herself to the side with as much force as she can muster, shifting his weight toward her sword arm, pinned in the dirt. It throws him off, as she knew it would; he'd been attempting to keep her from lifting her blade again, but the sword is not her object. The wolf's head pommel of the dagger at her belt slides into her fingers. Quick as a flash. He is only confused for a moment, but a moment is more than enough. Ciri drives the knife decisively between his ribs.

And all the while, that dull background noise of battle, drowned out by the frenzied drumbeat of her heart. It isn't excitement, she realizes with a strange, faraway calm, as hot blood pours over her front and she shoves the body off herself with a heave. Her eyes shine, too bright, too green, the energy rippling around her in a visible glow against the grey of dusk. It's fury.

Geralt isn't even here. ]

Ciri!

[He can only barely see what caused the horse to rear, but it doesn't matter -- the man underneath her hooves is crushed, but Ciri is thrown. Jaskier all but jumps from his own horse, running towards the battle. It certainly feels like one, a real one, with screams of the animals, the cries of men, the smell of blood already assaulting his nostrils as he grows closer.

Oh gods, he doesn't know why he's running towards this. Towards her. By the time he's almost there, Ciri is underneath one of them, and his vines are snapping across the air, knocking the flamed torch from one man's hand. It twirls through the air, sputtering as it hits the sand and rolls, the flame going out.

And in a moment she is shoving the dead weight of the very dead off of her, and Jaskier is scrambling to stop his momentum from going forward. The sand slips under his boots, the dunes sloping downwards. He slips with a startled yell, tumbling forward, boots flying over his ass as he rolls. The vines thrash mindlessly, losing their control in his panic.

The world spins, the wind knocked out of him. He comes to a stop, his hands scrabbling in the sand to stop his movements, cutting the skin under his nails. And when he finally stops, dizzy and looks up, there he is. The one Jaskier thought had run. He had run.

Towards him.

Jaskier only has enough time to yelp and curl up the sight of a sword. Protect what he can. Not even enough time to hope for the vines.

Oh gods oh fuck oh fuck --

[ Ciri rolls into a crouch, catlike, snatching up her sword again with the bloody dagger still in her off hand. Her blouse, once a light beige linen, sports crimson stains all down one side. Every sense is alight, and the magic is one of them, the thrum of it beneath her skin mingling with the adrenaline pumping through her veins in a steady, heady buzz that sets her nerves alight. Ciri doesn't have a Witcher's mutations, but she has a Witcher's instinct, and reflexes as close as a human can get.

She surveys the scene in an instant. Two dead beside her. Three in a cluster in the main camp, fighting off Jaskier's wildly thrashing vines, distracted enough for the moment to let Ciri catch her breath. And one--

She catches the flurry of motion and sound off to the side, further up the hill. Dust kicked up by Jaskier's fall. Jaskier's voice rising in a cry that seems as much shock as pain at first. Then, unmistakably, terror. ]

Fuck.

[ Already, Ciri is shoving to her feet, sprinting forward. Already, she knows it is too far. Her boots hit the earth, harder, faster with each step, the dusty air searing her lungs, but she can only run so fast. There's no time. She hadn't noticed, she'd been too occupied wrestling with that bastard in the dirt, and now--

Jaskier has curled in on himself, a helpless target. Sharp steel glints above him, raised high above the bandit's bald head, while one heavy boot connects with Jaskier's side in a bid, perhaps, to roll him over. Perhaps just for fun. The bald man laughs as he does it, but he doesn't seem inclined to wait for the begging to start.

Ciri's blood turns to ice in her veins. She is still a good twenty feet away, close enough to hear the hiss of sharpened steel slicing through air. Too far to reach. ]

Jaskier!

[ She's going to watch him die. The sword begins to swing downward, and she knows, recognizes the force and the angle, knows it is a killing blow. And she knows, with even more certainty, with all the force of her will and her power and desperation behind it, that she will not let that happen.

Ciri lunges forward, reaches inward. There is no fear or caution. Only will.

Move.

And just like that, between one step and the next, Ciri blinks across the remaining distance in the span of half a moment, reappearing mid-lunge in the space above Jaskier to barrel straight into the bandit, her sword hitting his hard enough to summon sparks. ]

[To their credit, the magic in him -- earth magic, as Rinwell so eloquently named it -- it tries. The ground near him splits, but there's too much. He's not this strong, creating these plants from nothing. The vines close to him split through the sand, snaking across the surface, and stop.

He feels the drain on him. The magic, pulling from his core, nearly like he felt Ciri did.

It's always been a miracle to him, how time can slow itself at will. How in the wake of a tragedy, or in the face of horrid fear. Time slithers like honey down a hill, trickling, winding its way down an unknown path. Jaskier knows, too, as she does. She is too far. She is too distracted. And he is not strong enough.

If he's lucky, the sword will only pierce his side. With his healing spell, maybe he can keep himself alive --

Lightning splits the air. Lightning, or a facsimile of it. A crackle. He hears his name -- not dim, as he'd assume, but loud and echoing and making him curl tighter, guessing the sword is raised and she can see it --

And then the striking. Two swords. He knows the sound well.

He moves immediately. Jaskier is not made for battle but he is made for survival. He's quick, scrambling through the sand, wincing when the wrong movement of his arm lances pain up so hot it stabs into his head. And despite it, he moves.

Then turns to see her, pushing against him, already injured. (Blood? Her blood?) The vine struggles, reaching still. No. Not Ciri.

He inhales, spittle flying.] Fuck off!

[It's a screech, cracking his voice, but the vine cannot hope but obey. It launches forward, uncoiling as if lengths were buried under the sand, and twists around the man's knee. Constricts, tight as a python, as Jaskier closes his fist, and the distinct sound of snapping bone splits the air. It's loud. Terribly, horribly loud. Loud enough to be heard over the man's cry as his leg gives in, and it begins to crumple beneath him.]

[ The force of their blades crashing sends pain singing up her arms, jarring her shoulders. She'd hurtled into him with the momentum of her leap and gravity combined, right into the momentum of his sword, and the clash lasts only one ringing moment before it shoves them apart just as hard as they'd collided.

In the space of that moment, Ciri sees with a surge of relief -- and no small amount of satisfaction and perhaps even pride -- that Jakier has rallied his plants around him again and gone back on the offensive. She lands beside him, stumbling only a little, out of breath with the shock of what she'd done (how close it'd been).

The bandit screams. ]

Jaskier! Are you hurt?

[ She shouts over the bandit's agony, uncaring. Her blade has already found the man's throat, her boot his sword arm, grinding heel into wrist as he folds in on himself, trapped by Jaskier's crushing vines.

This time, she doesn't take the kill. ]

Where did you find that sword? Here?

How long ago? Tell me!

[The world tilts again. Not because he thinks he may have a head injury -- though that is still quite likely -- because he realizes, as Ciri holds the man all but hostage, he had fully expected her to simply.

Behead him.

He blinks dimly, pulling his legs up against him. His entire side is a pulsing, hot bruise from where he'd been kicked, every breath sharp. Was he hurt? Not realistically, in comparison with the bits of bodies and blood soaking into the sand and dusty ferns around them.]

Fine. [He says it weakly, when it's too late past the question, and he's too busy staring at her press that blade deeper against his throat. The man -- dirty, hole-spotted clothes, blood dribbling down his leg which has sort of flattened in a sickening manner -- and Jaskier realizes he is the one causing that agony, those moans of pain.

All at once, the vines withdraw. He tilts, turning onto his hands and knees. His stomach turns, but, to his credit, nothing comes up.

The man hisses through clenched teeth, still attempting to squirm away. Here. Fucking here! Where else do you think? We -- He trails off, as if remembering, or realizing, that he's here alone. That the rest are dead, or run off back into the sands. His fingers dig into the sand. This morning. Hours ago.

As he attempts to explain himself through the pain, Jaskier pushes to his feet, roiling stomach, spinning head and all. He looks across the bodies, wiping sand and wet out of his eyes. Making sure there's no one else. No one else who can hurt Ciri.

Geralt's timing is in-fucking-peccable.

There, in the blood, beaded and growing thick on a stone. Deeper colors. Burgundy in the brown.

Do not let her come after me.]

Ciri --

[Jaskier leans over, back on his hands, and chokes, spitting up bile. Stupidly, it has nothing to do with the gore, the bodies. (He thinks.) The bruise of his ribs. It's what the words mean. The hard, sharp letters.

Geralt's alive.]

[ Ciri doesn't respond. But, for his answers, she is merciful; the bandit's death is swift, putting him out of his misery with a single swipe of her blade, a quick change of angle and pressure that drives the point upward, beneath the soft of his jaw and into his brain. He crumples when she kicks him off her sword.

Behind her, Jaskier chokes, and Ciri whirls around to crouch beside him instantly. The bloody sword is held aside, her other hand on the back of his shoulder, steadying. Down the hill, the other bandits are fleeing, and while she might have chased them on her own, the realization settles suddenly that Jaskier needs her. She'd run ahead once, left him behind. Nearly lost him. ]

It's okay. You're all right. Where does it hurt?

[ She soothes, scanning his body for injuries. ]

[He only barely notices the sound of one more body hitting the ground. Instead, Jaskier's fingers are smearing through the blood, touching the words. They linger, now printed over his hand, over the blood on them.

He's not imagining them. (How convenient would it be if he did?)]

Ciri. [He grabs her immediately, holding onto her as his arms wrap around her. Fuck. She's fine. She's fine, isn't she? Not hurt.]

Not that. It's -- [He chokes. All the empty threads they'd found already. Roach coming back.] Geralt. It's Geralt. He's alive. He sent me a message.

[Though he has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to do with it. Already he's sending a million of his own, clinging to Ciri but trying to concentrate. Geralt! Where are you? Where the fuck have you been? What's going on? Go after you where?]

[ Ciri rocks back on her heels, shifting her weight in surprise as Jaskier grabs onto her, clings like he's afraid she too might vanish. She hugs him back, bloody and a little bruised and sand-scraped, but fine. It seems he's in one piece too. Somehow.

(She'll have to think about that later, about what she'd done, how she'd done it. How it had worked, and if it's safe to try it again.)

For a moment, Jaskier struggles to get out the words, and Ciri holds him and waits for him to remember how to breathe. She thought he was just scared. She doesn't expect-- ]

What?!

[ Shocked, relieved, confused and worried all at once. She sits down in the dirt, without letting go of Jaskier, though she does pull back enough to see his face. ]

What did he say? Where is he? Are you talking to him right now?

[Jaskier is at the point where he very solidly wishes everything could stop happening so much.

He leans his head on her shoulder, the world spinning. The smell of blood is thick, and the more sour note of death. They've made an absolute fucking mess of Geralt's camp. At least, with his sword, there's no further proof needed it was his.

They sit there for a moment, and unfortunately Ciri has to wait for him to catch his breath, to re-catch his thoughts. He's firing off messages and waiting, waiting. Waiting for nothing.

He covers his eyes with his hands. Can he not see them? But no. There's nothing there. The words being to disintegrate until he can't even be sure he saw them at all.

But he did. He fucking did. That was Geralt. It had to be -- no one had figured out a way to fake that. Right?

Maybe he should lie, but he can't. He won't. Not to Ciri.]

Do not let her come after me. [He drops his hands, staring at her face. There's blood on her cheek.] I sent more. I sent more, and he won't fucking answer them.

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cw gore, dismemberment

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