wiedzminka: (nine.)
ℭ𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔞 𝔬𝔣 ℭ𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔞 ([personal profile] wiedzminka) wrote in [community profile] 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] belleteyn and [plurk.com profile] scathefire respectively!

cointosser: ([047])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-23 07:23 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
cointosser: ([051])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-24 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
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 --
cointosser: ([052])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-24 08:16 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
cointosser: ([006])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-25 03:28 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
cointosser: ([056])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-25 04:06 am (UTC)(link)
[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?]
cointosser: ([005])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-25 08:48 am (UTC)(link)
[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.
cointosser: ([020])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-25 09:26 pm (UTC)(link)
I know it was him. I can't be imagining it, right? That'd be right fucking pathetic.

[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.
cointosser: ([077] - S2)

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-27 11:40 pm (UTC)(link)
[She has a point. If it was his imagination, Geralt would have been very specific about where he was, what he was doing, and complimenting Jaskier's very talented hands and dick.

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.]
cointosser: (Default)

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-29 06:40 am (UTC)(link)
[Hm. He doesn't argue. He's not likely to make this situation... any less than the situation it is, honestly.

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?
cointosser: ([032])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-30 05:44 am (UTC)(link)
[Great. A lot of great information to have when they're attempting to not worry about Geralt, and not go after him. Ambushed. Who could ambush a Witcher? This wasn't like Geralt in the cells, when his senses were muted -- according to him.

He feels like his brain might burst soon. It's enough to focus on the horses, soothing them. He keeps a hand on his mare to keep himself standing.

Should they... do something? About them? It's the bloody desert. It wouldn't be a gesture of good will, for sure. And what could he do? Pull them under the sand with -- no. He'd rather not. (The crack of those bones still lingered in his head.)

He gives a nod and gets on his horse, waiting for Ciri to lead the way back. At the very least, they retrieved Geralt's things. Gods know they can't afford another fucking sword.

Jaskier clears his throat, sticking close to her as night approaches.]
I have. An inquiry.

[It says enough that he stops there.]
cointosser: ([058])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-30 07:49 am (UTC)(link)
[Ouch. Normally he'd rise to the prickling response just to do it, but right now he lets her have it without a pause.

The question comes to his tongue and forces him to acknowledge how close he was to certain death. And after all this time, he liked to think he was very good at avoiding certain death. He did not head into the thick of things. Like a good, smart bard, he stayed on the sidelines and let the Witchers do all the work.

He doesn't want to acknowledge it. Dying is terribly inconvenient.

He's nearly famous again, after all.]


We both know I was about to die. [And there it is. Look. He got it out! Without crying! This is character development.] Without question. You were not close enough to -- to do that. What you did. With the sword. [The word escapes him, his hands gripping his reins tighter. Ah. Remember your stupid lessons with Geralt.] Parry. That's it. Before you parried him.

[Okay, so he failed to put it in question form.]
Edited (I added a stupid joke) 2021-11-30 07:50 (UTC)
cointosser: ([032])

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-11-30 09:07 am (UTC)(link)
[Oh. Fuck. Somehow he hadn't thought him bringing it up would... would upset her. For Melitele's sake, he was barely processing his own trauma with the realization.

Immediately he reaches across the space between them to touch her arm.]


Oh, my dear. I'm sorry. I didn't think. [Possibly he should not be surprised she cares about him so, but sometimes it... it can be a lot. And he is fairly used to his friends' concerns for him being, how do you say, nonexistent.

Gods. His eyes prickle, but he swallows it down. Not now. She doesn't need that on top of everything else.]
That's all I need to know. You saved my life, Ciri. And for that, I cannot thank you enough.

[He can accept it. She can... do that. He's not even sure what it was. It wasn't inhuman speed, he thinks; he's seen that in Geralt plenty. It was like... like a blink. Between one blink and the next, she had crossed the entire camp. Like a portal. Had she made a portal? One so fast that none of them had seen it?

It was only one more display of her power. And she'd done it to save him. That was enough.]
I'm not going anywhere, I promise. We'll keep going, all right? Together.

[To find him. It didn't need to be spoken.]
cointosser: (Default)

[personal profile] cointosser 2021-12-01 05:56 am (UTC)(link)
I mean, this wasn't exactly hiding --

[Considering he'd been there to witness it. Yet he quiets down and lets her explain, her voice the only thing really out here among the dunes. Not even the calls of far-off birds.

His brows raise. Wait. She could always do this?

His head hurts. It's not necessarily her fault; there is far too much happening still. And now they go home empty-handed, and his new charge (since apparently that's what he has become, according to Geralt, in his absence) can seemingly break the impossible barriers between planes and move between them. Or move through one with impossible speed.

He rubs his temples. And then, the smallest smile.]


Blink. [As he'd thought, too.] It suits. [He drops his hand again.] It was brilliant. I'll be happy to paint him a picture of how well you fought, once he's returned. In any other circumstances... it would have been quite a sight.

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