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abraxaslogs2021-11-16 08:45 pm
wiedzminka) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-11-16 08:45 pm
[ 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![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
belleteyn and scathefire respectively!
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
no subject
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.)]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
cw gore, dismemberment
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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 --
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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!
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
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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?]
no subject
(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?
no subject
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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Ciri sits with Jaskier, letting him lean on her as much as he needs to, doing her best to be patient when the adrenaline is still just fading from her veins and her mind is racing as fast as her heart. Searching Jaskier's face for clues, Ciri only breathes for a few minutes, slow and deliberate, trying to calm herself down.
Her heart rate spikes the instant Jaskier speaks again. ]
What?! That's it? Where is he?
[ But he probably hadn't said. Not if that was the message Geralt sent. And why he sent it to Jaskier and not her.
Ciri grimaces, teeth clenching in the effort it takes not to keep shouting. Instead of yelling at Jaskier, who definitely doesn't deserve it right now, Ciri turns her attention on the connection that allows them to speak across distances and bombard Geralt with text-based yelling of her own. ]
no subject
[Ugh. Even saying it aloud makes him feel sick. Or perhaps he's just sick. This is. A lot. Fuck. He's only a bard.
And this is not the stuff ballads are made of.]
I don't know where he is. He didn't say. He didn't say anything else. [Jaskier does it for her. He covers his face with his hands and screams into them, bursting with relief and even more fear and the very real fact he's going to fucking kill him. Just. Choke him. Why? Why is he like this?
He knows why. Jaskier doesn't have to guess that Geralt fears someone eavesdropping on this spell. To be fair, do any of them know if that's even possible? It could be. All he's used it so far is an explicit invitation to a party. And arguing with some fool with lofty ideals.
He lowers his hands, wiping sand off his face.] Let's... let's gather his things. We can take them back. I don't think it's safe to stay here. With... all of this.
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[ Ciri listens to Jaskier yelling beside her, eyes closed, letting him just get it out without comment while she continues trying to reach Geralt without any acknowledgement whatsoever. Even knowing and having expected that in the first place, she is furious with him for it.
They both know there's only one person Geralt could mean, if he'd sent that message to Jaskier. Well. He's too fucking late. They're already here, and Ciri has no intention of giving up.
Even if Jaskier is right and they'll probably need to... shift tactics a bit. Ciri sighs and opens her eyes, surveying the scene with a detached sort of coldness. It's going to be dark very soon. Her eyes skim over the bodies, the mess of sand and dirt and supplies in the middle of the camp, landing on the pale glint of the sword lying abandoned further down the hill.
Do not let her come after me.
He's alive. For now. But he's somewhere else, somewhere unsafe, without his sword or any of his gear. Blocking them both out either from fear of being discovered and traced, or because he is unconscious or otherwise can't respond. The possibilities chip away at the sides of Ciri's resolve, sharp little knives whittling her down to a wisp of nothing but exhaustion and hollow resignation.
There is nothing else they can do tonight.
Slowly, Ciri pushes herself up to her feet, then reaches out to offer Jaskier a hand up. ]
We'll gather what we can and make camp on the way back. Put a couple miles between us and... "all of this." Moon should be out soon. We'll ride slow.
[ Speaking of... where the fuck are the horses? ]
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Jaskier takes her hand, letting most of her strength pull him up. He feels as if his legs have turned into worms, his stomach still quite unsure whether it wants to empty itself or not. (He'll never get the image of those words spilled across blood out of his mind.)
At least she doesn't disagree, and for that he's thankful, but he can feel this sort of wall come up around Ciri... as if she's trying to hold all the parts of herself up.] I know you know this already, but don't take it personally. What he said.
[They both know why. To protect her. And because Geralt was realistic: if either of them were to go after him, Ciri would have the most success. If they knew where to go.
He picks up Geralt's sword, wiping sand and blood from it onto his trousers. (Might as well. They're already ruined.) He peers around for its scabbard, letting his eyes neatly scan across the bodies as if they aren't there. It's easier that way.
Ah. Next to the. Arm. Not thinking it. He slides the sword into its scabbard, offering it to Ciri.] Here.
[If he doesn't take a break from this, he might actually get a little sick. An opportunity for blood-free air is. A good idea right now.] I'm going to go find the bloody horses. Lucky us. Still have the berries.
[Which will definitely be used to bait them into coming back. For once, he misses Roach's unflappable personality when it comes to violence.]
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[ She says it too quickly, too flatly, a tightness at the corners of her mouth.
Geralt is protecting her. She wants to strangle him for it, but -- if only logically -- she understands.
Besides, it's not as though she could go after him anyway. She has no idea where he is. Even if she'd had full access to her abilities and wasn't too cautious to use them, she couldn't do anything to help if she doesn't know where to find him in the first place. In that way, Geralt has guaranteed that she'll listen to him. For now.
She takes the sword from Jaskier, slinging the strap over her shoulder alongside her own sword, which by now has been wiped off and put back in its scabbard at her back. ]
All right. I'll have a look around and join you shortly.
[ It's quiet now. With the sun gone behind the far mountains on the horizon, the chill begins to settle in the air, temperatures plunging quickly for how warm it had been earlier. The sharpness of it cuts through the cloying smell of blood and corpses as Ciri makes her way to the embers of the fire, poking it a bit to get a small flame going and make a torch. By its wan light, until the moon gets high enough, she picks her way through the camp for any traces not completely erased by the bandits (and her and Jaskier). There isn't much. Geralt's camping supplies, the saddlebags that had been missing from Roach when she wandered back. A blanket, with silvery white hair clinging to its coarse fibers.
She packs everything up, stamps out the fire, and heads back to Jaskier. The vultures and outrices can have the rest. ]
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He gives Ciri a wave as he walks off, finally allowing his face to make whatever expression it needs to. To. Process this. The bodies, their further clues, or lack thereof. Geralt had been here. This was clearly his camp. There had been blood here before he left. No. Not left. Someone had to have dragged him off. Unconscious? But he was conscious now... or he had been when he sent that message.
Fuck. Fuck. He'd already gotten his scream out, but another might do him good. Twenty fucking years and he's never had to worry after Geralt (all right, the once, maybe, when he was in a house that collapsed.) This was. Different. After everything they'd been through -- all of the impossible things.
And now he worries about Ciri. Is she going to go? Oh, fuck. Should he have left her alone? No, no. It's fine. She can't go far without the horses.
Which... ah! There they are. Jaskier clicks his tongue gently at them, calling their names as he holds out a handful of the berries (neither squished nor rotted by their riding or over time.) They're skittish and Ciri's gelding is certainly spooked, but responds both to the free offerings of food and soothing pets down his mane.
By the time Jaskier returns with both horses' reins in his hand, he looks somehow even more exhausted. He'd spent the whole time with his mind shooting from one thought to the next, taking in everything. Replaying it in his head.
And he'd stopped on the fact that there had been a moment where Jaskier was so entirely sure he would not make it. Ciri had been too far. And then... she suddenly wasn't.]
Hey. I found them. As you can see. [He licks his lips. This is not really a topic he wants to broach, but it feels rather. Important.
When they're on the move. That's when.] Did you find anything else?
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