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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
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It is, for once, the first normal thing either of them had managed to do in weeks. A bit of baking for the fun of it, and Ciri here to give him bits of teasing and gossip.] And I imagine, despite my small setbacks, I'm well on my way to my name being on the lips of every character worth knowing in Cadens --
[He looks up to see her movements have stilled. Like a beast cornered; not in fear, but in the moment before in springs.
The plants in the windowsill begin to shift their leaves, the sound a quiet backdrop now that his whisking has stopped. He places the bowl down, pinkie tucked underneath so it makes no sound.] Ciri? [And so his heart stills again, waiting. Cornered.
His tongue burns to find an easy jest to allay this feeling that so tightens inside him. It is the words every fool says before the moment of impending disappointment that rises to his lips first instead.] What's wrong?
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Ciri reads the letter again. Her fingers twitch.
She imagines herself, in one swift movement, crumpling up the paper and throwing it. Calling up fire to her fingertips, letting it incinerate everything. Including the feeling. Especially the emptiness.
She imagines herself running out the door, tearing through the streets of Cadens on a horse she doesn't have, rushing to Sam's and throwing herself up the stairs to grab Alina by the shoulders as she's about to walk out the door. Shoving her down and shouting at her, with mouths close enough to breathe each other's pain.
She imagines a night not spent in a cell, but in a warm embrace with secrets shared and trust given. Trust she apparently has not earned in return.
The letter flutters lightly to the tabletop, a plucked butterfly wing, pinned with a slam by Ciri's fist hitting the wood. ]
...fuck.
[ Her shoulders slump, body bent forward under the twin forces of realization and resignation. ]
It's Alina.
She's gone.
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He jumps. The table rattles, knocking the wisk out of the bowl and to the floor. Egg splatters, but he ignores it, going to Ciri's side. His hand falls on top of hers.]
Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where?
[Gone? Like Sam's friends -- Bucky, Peter? Alina. He's met her once or twice, when he was staying with Sam -- the inevitability of so many bodies packed together -- yet he cannot figure out what her being gone should affect Ciri so much.
Unless --
Had he truly hit the mark that well?]
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[ Meaning the letter is from Alina. She isn't vanished if she left a note for Ciri, then-- but Ciri doesn't offer the letter to him, pressing her palm flat over the text when Jaskier's hand drops on hers.
Her heart is pounding, fury and worry a horrible cacophony in her skull.
Ciri slides her hand free, the letter with it, snatching up the envelope and shoving it back inside. She moves to stand, pacing agitatedly with the note clutched in her hands like she wants to rip it apart but is barely stopping the motion. ]
When did you say this arrived?
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Fuck. What is he supposed to do now? All his energy has already been spent; he'd been hanging on this good news from Julie for dear life, the roaring sea underneath him, and now his fingers are slipping once again from the cliff face.
She pulls away from him, and he's left standing there a bit hopelessly, a bit lost, watching her pace.
How quickly even the smallest bit of hope can slip away again.] I was out for a bit, so... it was either yesterday, or today. I'm not... perhaps you can catch her. Before she goes.
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She's so tired. Jaskier is tired too, and Ciri doesn't want to put this on him also, but--
Well. Here they are. As soon as she thought she'd found her footing, the floor shifts again, and the whole world becomes rearranged. ]
I- I'll try. I don't know--
[ She shakes her head, as if the motion will help clear away the insect hum inside her brain. Pacing back to the table, Ciri stops again, leaned over with both hands on the tabletop and staring at the empty space there with furrowed concentration. Jaskier may understand from the faraway look in her eyes, like she's seeing something that's not there. She reaches out.
It's only a minute or two later (it might feel like a lifetime, Ciri standing stock still at the kitchen table, fingers gripping the edge of the table white-knuckled) before she seems to lose whatever battle she was fighting in her head. Ciri's strength leaves her. She drops back into the chair. Her head falls into her hands, palms pressed against her eyes. Voice quiet, utterly drained. ]
Please... pour me a drink.
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He turns away from her, plucking up the whisk from the floor, mopping up the splattered egg. This loaf, he thinks, had better be the best fucking loaf he's ever made in his life, because it's certainly going through the wringer already.
When Ciri returns -- from messaging her, he imagines -- he could nearly thank her for it. It's not for his benefit, but it's what he needs. Some sign of something to do. Even if doing it will change nothing, will improve nothing. His hand slides across her shoulder as he moves to the icebox.] Don't move.
[He pours her a heavy-handed pint of ale, a fresh pitcher he's gotten to celebrate Geralt's arrival (and because it amuses him to see Rinwell's nose wrinkle when she smells it.) Then he pulls up a chair beside her, pours himself a glass as well. Drained. Yes, they're both certainly there, aren't they?]
Drink. Doesn't matter what her answer was right now. Just drink, Ciri.
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Ciri has no intention of riding across the desert to track her down. She could, perhaps. She could follow the wagon roads, find a fast enough horse to catch up when it's only a day or two's ride, well before they're anywhere near the border. If she left today, she's sure that she could do it.
But she won't.
Alina can go. Do whatever foolish thing she has in mind, whether or not it accomplishes anything (and Ciri suspects that it won't). This is Alina's journey now, and Ciri has not been asked to be a part.
It's just... she didn't expect it to hurt so much when she found out. ]
Thank you, Jaskier.
[ The ale is fresh and cold, a good pour. Wasted on her, as she takes long, desperate gulps, barely tasting the contents of her cup. Eventually, without coming up for breath until it's empty, she slams the mug down on the table next to the envelope.
Ciri stares at it again, not looking up at Jaskier when she speaks. ]
She's on her way to Thorne.
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When he smiles at her thanks, it's rather empty.
It's not just her, he realizes. If Alina is gone, then Sam... it's another person for him to mourn. Even if she has not disappeared. It's another person that he may feel he disappointed.
He sits back.] How on earth does she expect to get there? [It slips out before he realizes. Ah. Fuck. He doesn't know anything about her, really, though. Perhaps she's quite powerful, or connected. Even though she was young. Like Ciri.] But you caught wind back from her? She's answering?
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Instead, Ciri pushes the envelope away, shoving it across the table out of easy reach. She leans sideways into Jaskier occupying the chair beside her, and turns her face down into his shoulder. For all the anger coiled up inside her chest, Ciri's voice comes out quiet and flat. ]
She answered right away.
[ That almost makes it worse. That Alina was expecting it, that should could have reached out all along using this link they all share, and that she hadn't. Written that stupid, pointless letter instead. ]
Paid a merchant. Presumably to smuggle her across the border on his route.
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Immediately, Jaskier's arms raise around her; he'd been hesitating before, wondering if a touch would ever help after all of this. But she seeks it, and he gives it, offering Ciri what he has left of himself after everything. His grip is tight, chin on her shoulder. There is the smallest chance if he holds her tight enough, both of them can squeeze the helplessness out of their hearts.
A very small chance.]
Resourceful. [It may have been amused in any other moment; he'd never taken Alina as resourceful. And yet, where had she gotten the coin for that? That's quite the bribe.] Shall we curse her name? I'll come up with a particularly rude rhyme. We can send it to her.
[He doesn't think Ciri will take him up on the offer, and Geralt will never receive the bounty of extremely rude rhymes that Jaskier already sent him.]
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Jaskier, she squeezes in return, grateful beyond words for his presence. ]
Reckless... idiot...
[ The offer earns a sound that isn't quite a laugh, not quite a sob, something of a wheeze like something being stepped on. ]
Maybe later.
[ After a minute, Ciri finally releases him, feeling a tiny bit calmer if not exactly better. She reaches for the pitcher of ale and refills both their cups. ]
For some reason, she thinks Mal is there. Isn't sure, but it was enough. They are... close. And he is from her sphere.
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Funny how many people we know that could apply to.
[He gives her a last squeeze, letting her slip away. He lifts a hand to wipe her cheek, then leans into her as he takes his cup.
It tastes better the second go around.]
They must be quite close for her to make the attempt. [Jaskier is trying to keep up; to be fair, all he knows of Mal is he had the nerve to give Jaskier critique on his performance. He also knows well others who would cross this distance for their companions, if they could. If they were brave enough to.]
I suppose even hope is plenty for us to do completely stupid, reckless things. But if sheβs brave enough to try, Iβm sure sheβs competent enough to succeed.
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This time, she takes a slower drink, actually tasting it. ]
I hope so. I just--
She could have asked me for help. I would have understood.
[ Maybe not agreed to let her just go to Thorne, but Ciri could have helped her find connections there first. Potentially. Then again, maybe not, with what happened to Geralt--
Fuck. It's all a mess, isn't it? ]
I thought she trusted me.
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I know. [He's quiet, thumb and index finger rubbing together, playing with the rings there. Though dough sticks to the metal, he's always enjoyed wearing them. Even when kneading.]
But if she knows you as well as I suspect, she knows you would've tried to stop her. [And there's nothing wrong with that. He slips his arm around her and simply leans, leaving his drink alone.] And I bet she trusts you may have been able to do so.
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His words are kind. Honestly, Ciri wishes they weren't. She wishes he didn't give Alina so much credit. Or her.
She spits the words out like a bitter pit, hard and sharp and wrapped around just enough poison to feel unpleasant in her mouth. ]
She does not know me. And I could still stop her. Merchant wagons hardly travel at swift speeds.
She didn't think of that. She didn't think of anything. Let her go.
I cannot afford distractions now.
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He's felt that same flare a few times himself. He knows Geralt believes he has good reason for only sending them that one fucking message, and yet -- yet he's wanted to wring his neck since they got it.
But he doesn't like the idea that because she did one thing Ciri hates -- whether it was stupid and wreckless or not -- that Ciri should write her off so easily. That she should harden her heart. Is it really for protection, or is it easier that way? To let people go?]
Your heart has room for more than one, love. [He squeezes his arm round her, then slips it away. As does his. He can message someone in Thorne to look for her. Kylo. Kylo might do it, he thinks, even after this time. They had their eye on plenty when he'd been in Thorne.] Besides. We all know plenty of headstrong fools. Some of us are headstrong fools.
[Speaking delightedly of himself.]
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[ It's half-laugh, half-sigh. Ciri, of course, thinks he's talking about her. Possibly himself too. Definitely Geralt. A whole gaggle of headstrong fools, the lot of them.
She sits back up when he moves his arm, reaching for her ale again, wondering if they have anything stronger. Is it any good to drink herself into a stupor? Then again, what else is she supposed to do while waiting? For there is nothing to do but wait, at this point; there is nothing more either of them can give that will help Geralt, and it hurts.
It hurts that she feels so useless. It hurts that Alina left, even if it wasn't that she left Ciri, specifically. It hurts to know everything is just so... fragile, so tenuous, every day hanging by a thread if one ever just stops and looks to see how gossamer-thin the veil of everyday life is in this place, barely obscuring the reality that none of them know anything.
Ciri drinks again, leaning back in her chair and staring up at the ceiling. ]
Nothing could have come of it, regardless. [ She admits after a while, quiet, tired. Resigned. She doesn't sound angry anymore; she is only stating a fact. ]
She will always choose those from her home. I do not fault her for it. I will always do the same.
My heart can desire to have room for all the people it wishes, but hearts are foolish little beasts. What do they know? In the end, we both knew the choices we'd make.
[ She just feels stupid for letting herself think Alina should have trusted her with more. Maybe Alina is the one who had it right all along, and Ciri who should have shared less and listened harder. ]
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Jaskier recognizes what she's doing. (Perhaps who she learned it from, though he doubts this sort of lesson is genetic nor learned.) Snipping off the ribbon between herself and Alina the moment it has begun to stretch. It is so much easier to cut others off when things get difficult. It is easier to defend one's heart that way.
His fingers ring around his mug as it spins in his hands. Fidgeting, as he imagines what he could say, if anything. It's simply a pain she must go through, as he has gone through so many of his own. Friends and women and men, abandoning him, disinterested, or those who have found others, or simply moved on. Certain men who leave one on the sides of mountains, alone.]
Well, I should like to think hearts know plenty, even if we are far from inclined to listening to them. [Hello. Poet here.] But hearts, like people, are needful little things.
[What he is saying is as easy as you cannot allow yourself to harden so easily, but her calcification is happening in front of him and there is naught else he can do to save it. He can already imagine how Ciri might scoff at the sentiment.] What I mean to say, is... that it is all right to hope for more.
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When she'd been dragged through the door between worlds by that Thornean mage, Alina was there. Call it chance or something else (not destiny; she refuses), but Alina had been in her cell to make sure she got enough to eat, to listen without judgement or comment when she'd cried. Alina had been the first, the only person she'd told about Geralt, about how he didn't know her. About who he is.
When the Singularity had dragged that horrible magic out of her and she'd hurt Jaskier, Alina had been there, too. After. At Sam's. In the bath. Warming the water with the little sun in her hands. And again, Ciri had told her. She'd needed to talk, and Alina had listened.
It only now occurs to her that Alina never truly shared much of her own. In retrospect, Ciri feels a fool for having expected more.
For a while, she is silent, finishing her ale and staring at the wall.
She wonders if that was what she'd been hoping for. For... more. When had it started? When will the feeling go away?
Ciri reaches over, her fingertips barely reaching the edge of the envelope she'd shoved away. She slides it closer, then to the side. Toward Jaskier. ]
Keep this for me. Until I ask for it.
[ She doesn't ask him not to read it; she doesn't think he would. ]
It's just--
I'd hate to lose it.
[ When she does something out of anger.
Because she still rather feels like tearing it to bits. And some part of her recognizes that would be terribly sad. ]
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When it's the wolf who has been lost,
Who will he call to?
When she speaks again, his body straightens. He smiles, soft.] Of course. Until you ask for it.
[There is hope yet. He plucks the letter off of the table and carefully folds it (after making sure there is no residual dough on his fingers, thank you.) He won't read it. It is not his to read. Besides, Ciri has already told him its contents, and he sincerely doubts Alina is a prolific letter-author. He stands to place it in his song-writing book, tucked between the final few pages.] Now, do you really wish to stay here and get drunk, or do you want to... I don't know. [He lifts his arms, then drops them to prop his hands on his hips.] Go wild? Ride a horse? Kill something?
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[ She may not ask for it. Not for a while. Or maybe she will ask tomorrow, once she's slept. For now, Ciri feels somehow... if not quite better, then at least a little calmer, more grounded, knowing that Jaskier will help her share this burden. A safe place to keep this piece of her heart, tucked away in his notebook.
The suggestions make her smile. A little wan and watery, but not feigned. ]
Not this time. [ She's done plenty of that the last few days.
Now that the anger has faded and Ciri has accepted that Alina is gone, that she won't be going after her, all she feels is tired. Beneath all that, the desperation to find Geralt that had been eating at her has settled too, from a lightning hum under her skin to a weary weight inside her bones. She's spent all night in a cell. She's screamed and cried enough. She doesn't want to go back out there now. ]
Play a game of cards with me. Tell me of your exploits in the realm of bakery, and of the songs you're working on. Perhaps a few of those rude rhymes are in order, after all.
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[Well, that's fair. He meant the killing of -- of animals and things, because he is thinking of nothing further than that, and certainly not of Hector's offer to raise their... the bodies as personal little servants.
He shudders at the memory, moving on so she needn't ask about it.]
My, I thought you'd never ask. [Even if he knows he's mere distraction, Jaskier does so adore talking of himself. Especially of his music, of which no one hardly asks these days. (He does miss his adoring fans sometimes.)] Then drink, my dear, and I'll give you a few lines.
[He must return to his bread, though he knows that, for whatever reason, the dough would sit there for hours and never change, the yeast never dying, waiting for his touch again. (If only he could say that about people, not bread.) He's already gotten the fire going in the oven, so he slides it in on a bit of stone, grabbing the ale to refill both their mugs.
Rude rhymes are most usually his favorite, but it's not what he reaches for first.]
When I go to the market, there's this family of -- well, I imagine they must be a family -- of ravens. The littlest one, one of its wings is clipped or something. I've never seen it fly, only hop around. [He talks to fill the void between them, but also because the topic of choice gives a fair bit of warmth. A spot of hope in a world so quick to snuff it out.] You know, I write these things, these words, when I want to create but I lack the correct inspiration for real song. They're only ditties I keep to myself, practice to keep my voice alive.
[He hasn't a clue, really, how much he's gone on about singing or song with her, before they were here. And he can't help but think of it as another him, someone he might recognize but still holds unfamiliarity. That Jaskier has a life he has yet to live, memories he has yet to retain or to forget. Experiences, he bets, that they would both love to write of.
At any rate, she's asked, and he wants her to not think of this Alina for a spat, to focus on something foolish and hopeful and perhaps ridiculous instead.]
Anyway, I've been crafting a story of these ravens. A bit of an epic, if you will. Building on it every time I see them.
[As the fire of the oven crackles, he clears his throat, spinning the rings on his fingers.]
So you stumble, little raven,
A useless ball of soot,
Peck a seed, if you can find it
Between a hundred thousand boots.
And then here come four more ravens,
Eight more wings to bear you up,
Stealing bread and cheese and chicken,
To fill that useless belly up.
[And yes, he's named all of them, and given them motivations, and backstories, likes and dislikes. And yet every single one of them coddles that clipped-wing bird, bringing it food and cuddling up by its side when they roost on the nearby signs or stalls.]
I know, I know. Clearly not my best.
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That little raven must be very loved. He is fed and cared for, with a family to keep him safe.
But you should be more mindful of his feelings, Jaskier. If you sing to him of being such a useless mouth to feed, he may stop eating, and you'll make his family sad.
I'm sure he wishes he could do more to be of use to them.
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We should all be so lucky. [His tone, for the moment, doesn't match that huff of a laugh. Yes. What they all wouldn't do to be loved, and cared for, with a family? It's at no one in particular, really. Perhaps an old, foggy memory of his father in Lettenhove. An old professor he recalls with the most scathing sort of tone when he managed to spit out Pankratz.
Jaskier leans against the counter, and crosses his arms across his chest.]
Well, Ciri, I think there are plenty of us -- little ravens included -- that find a sort of comfort in knowing their own uselessness. Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Or a villain.
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wrap it up here? :>
perfect <3