[ OPEN / CLOSED ] i think i found a way to kill the sun

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: December
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Some catching up now that he's home
Warnings: Discussion of trauma; nsfw marked



(( placing starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

Comments

open.

[gynvael]

I. HORIZON

[ A week passes before Geralt makes an attempt to enter the Horizon. He'd wanted his mind clearer. It isn't as clear as he'd like even now, his sleep still too restless, but he's...better. Some of the sharp edges of those old memories have faded. In time, they will sink beneath the surface once more. He's moved on once, buried those parts of his childhood deep. He can learn to do so again.

In the meantime, life will not stop no matter how hard the past may cling to him. He's not one to stand in place but leaving the city is not an option out there. So he's here instead, where he can get some breathing room from the crowded streets, from the others in his home. His domain is as he left it: the wolf lurks in and around the gates, occasionally with a suspicious shimmer to its white fur, the main hall is warmly lit. A door sits a floor below, but Geralt has not wandered that way yet to notice it.

Anyone who comes by can find him outside in the snow, on a stump, his legs stretched before him. Remnants of his healing injuries have followed him into the Horizon—Geralt has little interest in being painfully slammed with the reminder they exist every time he returns to the real world—but they don't appear to hinder him as much as they normally would, and only a bandage winding up one of his arms is visible from those looking on. A sword sits on his lap; he's cleaning it with the methodical attention of one who either requires exceptional concentration to polish a single blade or who's clearly using it as a distraction.

Now and again, the wolf comes to lay on the ground beside him, sprawled in the snow. He's certain the wolf used to behave more of a wild animal, elusive and standoffish, but the rotating visitors who have spoiled and given the animal attention (they know who they are) has apparently worked to tame the thing. Not that he minds, exactly. It makes for a decent companion. ]

II. CADENS

[ Geralt swears the city's grown more crowded as of late. Maybe it only feels that way after the quiet of Thorne's mountains, the sparsely populated innroom in Nott. Bleeding out through the forest had not been his idea of pleasant, but the silence, the cold, the softly falling snow—he prefers it over Cadens' dusty desert. Always will.

At least temperatures have cooled these days. Too bad he can't take advantage of that to hunt deeper in the desert. He's made an attempt at mounting Roach; he can get on, can even ride her for a bit, but he knows the strain of it will not let him travel anywhere close to days at a time. It means he's trapped in the city for the time being, with little to do other than walk and drink.

There are two places you can find him:

1) Tucked in some corner of a tavern somewhere, white hair peeking out from under his cloak. His hands show signs of rougher wear than even his usual, two of his fingers splinted together, but if he's nursing injuries elsewhere, none are visible beneath the cloak he's thrown over himself. He looks like he's not slept in weeks and definitely like he wants to be left the hell alone.

Unfortunately, taverns in Cadens also tend to be filled to the brim no matter where one goes, especially at this time at night. It's possible this is the only table that's got a free seat for anyone who wants a drink. If you're bold enough to chance occupying the chair across from him, you're welcome to it. You might have better luck if you buy him a drink first.

2) Lurking near one of the blacksmiths in the market square, leaning against a stone pillar. He seems to be waiting for something or someone, by the looks of it. Either that, or he's just lurking for the sake of it.

(He is, in fact, waiting for the work he's asked to be done on his sword: affixing to the hilt of his sword the old wolf pendant Jaskier had given to him early on, when they'd first arrived in the city. Now that Yennefer has passed him his proper medallion or so close an approximation to it he can't tell the difference—someone in Thorne must've helped her—he hasn't got a need for both of them. But he doesn't want to rid of Jaskier's. It means something to him now, too. Putting it on his sword where Renfri's brooch would normally be if he still had it feels...right.)

If you bump or fall into him, you'll find he's far more easily knocked off balance than a man his size should be—and the pained noise he makes might suggest why that is. Either way, do you want to be cursed at? Because that's how you get cursed at. ]

Someone said blacksmiths

[petcromancer]

[Hector has been meaning to check in on Geralt; his disappearance had done a number on Jaskier. But he's also a hermit at heart, and hadn't been eager to impose on the witcher household reunion or Geralt's recovery.

But Geralt is here near Hector's place of business, so this is as good an opportunity as any. He stops by the stone pillar on his way in to work.]

Trading the life of a hunter for a pigeon perch, or is one of my fellow smiths secretly a monster in disguise?

[Hector's employing the best method of expressing his concern, which is to completely ignore the traumatic events that happened and make a stupid joke instead.]

1 because we've put it off long enough

[cryptsleeper]

[A basket appears on the borders of Geralt's domain. It is exceedingly plain, the white cloth that holds the contents impossible to read.

The contents, however, need some work.

An attached note simply reads:]

Open to critique.

II-2

[priestified]

Woah. Easy there, pal. You all right?

[ Heedless of whatever curses the surprisingly unsteady stranger chooses to curse at him, Maxwell's hands rise in both a gesture of placation, quickly followed by an attempt to steady the man by his much broader shoulders.

Listen, he'd be angry if some jackass turned a corner and plowed right into him, too. He's not about to start a fight over it.

Though judging by that hiss of pain, that might be a fight Maxwell thinks he could win. ]

1

[aquaveiled]

[ It has been some time since she last spoke with Geralt, and even more since she had paid an incidental visit to his domain. Feeling not so much responsible for his well-being given that they don't truly know one another all that well, but just being the sort of person who likes to make random unannounced trips, Himeka decides to see what has become of the cabin in the cold forest and conjures up garments appropriate for the occasion.

This time she is much more wary of the trees and manages to avoid having her own domain get stuck amongst them by simply commanding it to stay put on the outskirts. (Probably what she should have done on her first visit, to be honest.)

But when she arrives with a basket in hand, she can see that the cozy little cabin has left. Himeka frowns slightly, her gaze going over what she thought would be familiar landscape--pieces, yes, but there are new landmarks now. A large stone keep rising above her is one such addition. Hmm.

Well, there do still feel to be the touches of what can only be assumed is Geralt's aetherial touch, so this must be his handiwork. With a shrug, she turns her attention towards the fortress and ascends.

Glad to see her suspicions are correct when the man in question is tending to a sword with his canine companion looking very much at home in the snow. He can likely hear the crunch of the snow beneath her boots as she approaches if she hasn't been spotted already, not doing anything to conceal her presence. Himeka offers a wave with her free hand. ]

Needed a little more room?

Checking in after the escape!

[photophobic]

[Spending most of his time in the Horizon sequestered away in the palace of obsidian glass built into the side of his volcano, Kylo hasn't tracked his scorching way across the Horizon to Geralt's domain before— but now, he has reason. His progress is slow and deliberate, and while he doesn't believe himself capable of walking through the world without scarring it (so he isn't), the tracking line of destruction marking his passage is thin and largely superficial. Kylo isn't here to add to Geralt's wounds.

He is here to check in on him, which is a relatively new desire to be trying on for size, and when he catches sight of the Witcher he finds himself relieved. Also new. He stops short, leaving a healthy distance between them: he is something of a monster after all.]

Geralt.

[It's also possible he's trying out greetings.]

horizon.

[sanc]

[ Things have certainly been... outside of her scope for a bit of time. She comes from a world of war, but for as much technology as there is in her world, the likes of what she's seen here are completely in fairytales.

The Horizon brings her an odd sense of peace. It's not safe here, but she's stood to garner a bond with it knowing how important it is to connecting her to home. She wishes she'd had so much more time to ask about it, but spending time with it -- in it -- might give her some of what she wants to know. At least, that's her hope.

There are people she wants to check on and while she had not spent much time with Geralt, she hopes to see if he'd learned anything since their last conversation.

So off she ventured, dressed a bit more warmly than she was the last time but still donned in all black. She remembers how she found his hut last time and is thankful to see that her memory served her well in the end. It's the wolf that gives her pause, so she stops a bit aways from him to greet him. ]

Geralt! Hello, how are you?

[ Worse for wear, it looks like, but it's a courtesy more than anything. ]

sam.

[gynvael]

[ Ever since Sam's gathering weeks ago, Geralt has not been back to Sam's home in the Horizon. They're only a short walk apart in Cadens; entering the Horizon to see each other serves no purpose. Except lately, he's wanted to get away. Wanted something that isn't the desert, the little inn rooms, without the bustling sounds of the city. He wants the quiet calm that he felt in that house long ago.

In truth, he suspects Sam could do with getting away from Cadens, too. The ghosts of those who have left linger. He'd felt it while he was there, even distracted as he was with his own bullshit. Besides, Sam keeps looking at him with those eyes now and again, guilty and ashamed, and Geralt's frankly sick of it. He gets it, he does. He also doesn't care to see it directed towards him more than once. Sam's apologized, Geralt has accepted. In his mind, that marks the end of it. Geralt does not do relationships in half-measures. Either they are friends or they are not, and he's decided on the former. Until Sam does something else to break that trust again—and he doesn't think Sam will—he isn't going to dwell on what'd happened. The fact that Sam continues to do so is...it isn't necessary. That's all. Geralt hasn't any interest in a friendship based on Sam feeling bad or believing he needs to make up for something.

He has no desire to sit down to have a talk, though. He's always preferred to act. Which is the other reason he's arrived at Sam's cozy blue house with its lakeside dock. It is, to Geralt, where it all started. They had spoken before that, true. Geralt had accepted the help offered on those mountains by the tunnels. But it was not until after he sat in Sam's kitchen with all of their memories locked away, until they spoke about it afterwards of the girl and the invitation Geralt had extended in return, that he'd slowly let Sam become something of a friend. Perhaps it'll do Sam some good to remember that.

He enters the house, door unlocked as he knew it would be. If Sam doesn't show, he'll leave a note. He thinks Sam might, though. Sam tends to look in on everyone scattered beyond the Free Cities. In the meantime, Geralt takes a beer, perched on the same stool he always finds himself on. ]

[falcony]

[ geralt is...not entirely wrong where it concerns sam. yes, he could do with some getting away from cadens. yes, he could spend some time out of that empty apartment. yes, sam has had a bad habit of catching himself feeling guilty again and again for what he did. yes, too, sam notices when someone has stepped onto the property and made their way to his home. okay, so, it's entirely possible that geralt is almost entirely right about all of this, down to the fact it only takes about ten minutes before sam is stepping through his own back door - directly into the kitchen.

it's not the first time sam has showed up to his home because someone had stepped inside. if anything, sam's opened this place up for that exact purpose - to be lived in, to be used. it's a house, and yes it's his house, but it was meant to be lived in. and sam, despite all the insanity that the horizon tended to bring, was adamant to keep at least that consistent. could he do something strange and creative with it? yes. did he have thoughts, every now and then, that maybe he should mix things up? absolutely. but as he stepped through that back door and found geralt sitting on that exact bar stool, a feeling of familiarity rushes over him. the kind of feeling that grounds him - in this, in now.

( and this is where it all started, isn't it? in this same kitchen, memory-less, talking of food and the distant echo of kids and the two of them - family, in a way. friends, without really noticing. )

suddenly, sam is quite glad that the rest of his day is fairly empty - seeing that the guest had been geralt and (while partially confused and partially curious as to why he simply showed up) choosing to maybe give himself the rest of the day to just. do this. because in this moment, as he walks inside, that guilt and that worry and that thought of what happened is far enough away sam doesn't think about it. not yet, at least. ]

You get started without me? [ he means the beer in geralt's hand, and however much of it he's made his way through in the interim. still, sam will grab two bottles from the fridge and walk back over to the counter - setting both in front of geralt with a kind of smirk. (he should know exactly what sam is asking for) ]

How's Julie? [ that's just a wild guess as to what brought geralt to the horizon, but he's probably not too far from the truth. there is also very little innuendo with the question - while sam knew what happened at the Halloween party, and probably what happened after too, his tone is genuinely curious, wondering how they're doing after everything. there's a hint of concern too - if thorne caught on, if everything is still okay - but he doesn't let it linger. ]

amos.

[gynvael]

[ Despite the times they've met in the Horizon, Geralt has never ventured to Amos' domain. Amos might have mentioned it once or twice offhand, or maybe not, but—Geralt saw no a reason to, given their meetings were to train, not a social call. (Though perhaps between the two of them, it rather amounts to the same thing.)

Only now does he decide to search Amos out. He'd considered sending a simple message. If they had been less acquainted, he might've done so. But he knows Amos went with Jaskier to help search for him, and they are...friends. Feels like he owes him more of an explanation than a short note.

He ends up asking Sam where Amos' domain might be. If anyone knows it'll be Sam. He gets enough to go on, enough to locate the black space that Sam calls space. The term holds no real meaning to Geralt beyond conceptually. It's strange, but perhaps the fact that he doesn't know anything about space means it isn't as unnerving as it might be to someone else. It doesn't register as emptiness, just blackness lit with distant shining stars like the night sky reflecting in a pool.

The ship is recognizable only because he's been told what it's roughly meant to be. The hunk of metal is easier to accept in the Horizon, where any number of bizarre structures exist. He ducks in, eyeing the interior curiously. Is this home for Amos? Or just a piece of memory? It isn't difficult, once inside, to follow the sound of a heartbeat and find Amos within...whatever this room may be.

Geralt still looks a bit rough, but far better than he was when he first returned. It says something, probably, that he hasn't bothered to put the effort into erasing whatever new injuries or marks he's racked up in the real world. He knocks on the wall, less out of politeness and more to catch Amos' attention. ] Busy?

[baltimores]

[ The machine shop, then.

A level below the annoyingly empty crew quarters, but it's okay, because the machine shop was generally always his own space, anyway. Alex would have the flight deck, Cap and Naomi in ops, and he'd be on standby to patch or seal or whatever needed fixing whenever they were in the midst of some action.

Only there's no action here, and none of it's real. He doesn't need to run any system checks on the Roci. There's nothing to repair here. He built her from nothing himself, and because she's nothing, there's no wear or tear or anything. He's really a mechanic without a job. Utopias are bullshit.

Still, his hands itch more often than not nowadays to do something he's familiar with. So he can sit on a stool at the lone table in the centre of the shop's lower level, the parts of a shotgun laid out on it, cleaning each of them individually. Doesn't do any good, but if he can remember every individual part, how they all fit together, how to take care of your weapon, then, shit, maybe that'll still come in useful someday. Who knows. It's something to do.

He registers the sound of footsteps against the deck but only looks up when he hears the knock, sees Geralt standing just slightly above him, a ladder with only a couple of steps separating them from being on the same level. He ponders the question, turns to look at the table with the disassembled shotgun on it before him, and sighs, putting down the rag he'd had in his hand and looking back up at him. ]

I wish. [ His voice is easy, conversational, like Geralt hadn't missed their latest string of lessons, hadn't been missing at all, and he hadn't met his stressed-out-of-his-mind best friend. Like he hadn't seen anything new in Geralt's domain. (Shit, just a message wouldn't have been a bad way to go about this, though Amos isn't gonna object now that he's here.) ] If I was, I wouldn't be bored as shit. As it stands, I got nothing to do here that actually means anything. You'd think a ship that never breaks down would be great. And it would be. 'cept it's not a vacuum out there, so even if something did somehow break in here, it wouldn't make a difference.

[ Who'd have thought he'd miss the part of space travel where one thing could fail and there's a chance you'd be dead without even noticing. But enough about him. Amos doesn't get up from his seat, but he does turn to properly face Geralt, looking up at him, taking in the part where the guy's obviously not at one hundred percent. ]

How about you? You doing alright?

yennefer.

[gynvael]

[ There's one person Geralt has not reached out to since his return a few days ago. He should. He should. It's complicated, always, between them. More so lately than usual. And Yennefer is many things, has been angry at him for a lot, probably at many points wished to never see him again, but he holds no illusion that she would not care to learn if he's safe. Not after something like this.

He doesn't know how he feels. Too much. More than he wants. He isn't angry. It would be easier if he were. But it isn't so simple, either, as saying he understands, that he knows what happened was not her intention, and leave it at that. It was still by her hand, and he's—it's hard to swallow the bitter taste left behind, the sense that he never wanted any part of this, was dragged into it by her bullshit scheming. It's both childish and unfair. He made his choices, same as she. He knows what he chose when he left her behind in Thorne and asked her to do what it took to protect Ciri. When he stayed with her in the Horizon. When he did not seek her out afterwards. He is not looking for an apology. He does not want her regrets or what guilt she may hold.

Maybe, deep down, all he does want is to hear her say she hadn't meant to do...that. Maybe it will quell the part of him that remains uncertain, the part he's been trying to ignore, that he doesn't want to admit is there. He hates doubting her. He's always understood every one of her sharp edges, the softness they hide, whether they frustrate the fuck out of him or not. He wants to believe he still does.

Thoughts of contacting Yennefer don't leave him. The night is dark when he sits in bed, unable to sleep, thinking about what he can say. What he wants to say, if he wants to say anything. A few haphazard letters slip loose—incomplete, without a signature. ]

We ne—Yen

—fuc

[ Fuck.

He lays back down. Forget it. She'll reach out to him when it's safe. Knowing what the mages are capable of, what the queen must've suspected if not outright known is between them, he can't blame her for avoiding scrutiny. ]

[vixening]

[ yes, it probably would have helped matters if geralt had chosen to reach out in any capacity over the course of the last few weeks. or, really, if anyone had been able to tell her anything. she doesn't fault him for the silence, because in truth it was probably for the best - she's still not entirely sure how closely she's being watched and monitored, how closely the queens and her eyes have followed. it's why she's made no further move, even after the whispers of another escape from the dungeon, even after she'd gotten confirmation geralt was no longer within those walls, or any others of thorne's making.

( it's relief, that she grapples with most. fear, that it had been something worse, and then relief that had replaced it - that had nearly broken her façade, that had just about broken through. it's by the skin of her teeth that she manages to keep any reaction under check, a close thing that keeps her lips tight. it's only a rumor she had reminded herself, but it had been something. )

as it stood, yennefer heard nothing beyond that initial rumor. no messages, no letters, not even a whisper from the other courtiers - and so she carried on as nothing had changed. she went to her sessions of studying, with the younger mages. she spent some time in the library, researching the queen's family history. she attended court, and sometimes did not, took her walks through the gardens, and held together the façade.

it did not matter, what had gone down behind those closed doors. it had not affected her, and would not shake her resolve.

( except that it is in her room, late at night, when sleep escapes her too. when she lies awake and thinks of what it was she found, what it had been down that thread she had pulled. it had been excruciating, watching that come to light. watching geralt see it, watching geralt live through it, knowing. knowing.

made for a magical childhood

it eats away at her, the memories. the flashes of geralt, younger. geralt, in trials. geralt, forced through with a kind of magic that shouldn't have been possible to survive. each night for weeks, that is what yennefer finds in her bedroom waiting for her, memories that are not even her own, and the vision of geralt, bloodied and exhausted, who had turned to her, living through them all again. )

it is weeks later, though in all honesty she has lost count somewhere along the way of how many days, before her nightly ritual is interrupted. scrollwork in haphazard, scratchy lines appear across her eyes. she recognizes it, even before she realizes she does, sitting up so suddenly from where she lay that she feels a bit dizzy with it. but too soon, the letters fade, too soon she'd left alone again in her room, candles flickering, the cool night air fogging her window.

the urge is of course there to respond, the words almost appearing behind her very own eyes - tell me you're out of thorn. tell me you made it back to the free cities. what is that even supposed to mean? but she catches herself before the words form. as silly as it feels, her eyes go to the door. to the quiet sounds of empty halls. had anyone noticed the message? could the messages even be tracked? would they know she was communicating with him, now that he was free of the borders? (was she putting him in danger again?) a part of her aches with it - the need to reach out, to bridge this gap, to stand up and create a portal and just let the rest of the summoned deal with whatever thorne's royal family had plans for - but a quiet voice stops her.

it is a trap. do not fall for someone else's.

it takes her a few hours of pacing and errant frustrated uses of magic (the chair never stood a chance, but she can always fix it again) before the idea comes to her, before she settles back on her bed and calms the raging storm of panic and uncertainty and the need to act from her mind. once in the horizon, she moves quickly - it takes less than five minutes, perhaps barely even two - for her to arrive in the horizon, to portal to where it is she plans to go. the door is open, when she tries it (and there is a part of her surprised by even that) but she goes in all the same. leaves it, right where she left the last bit of her, and disappears before he can notice.

the next time geralt chooses to go to his room, he will find a small, tightly woven scroll under the candle stick on his bedside table. maybe he will search for it, or maybe he will just know, and upon unrolling the parchment there will be - in elder, though even in elder the script will seem familiar - a single line of text with a date attached. the parchment will smell like her, though - of lilac and gooseberries - with a familiar image on the back. one he might find the mirror of, on the pendant he wears. ]

The Mountainside.

estinien.

[gynvael]

The sheep are inexplicably round.

As a general rule, Geralt does not detour or stray from his path. But he is not, for once, in the Horizon to see anyone in particular. He's here because he's trapped in Cadens, in the city, given he's still not in great shape to ride: his ribs might've largely knitted together, but they're tender, and his back is only starting to scab and heal properly from the mess it once was. His only option is to walk and walking the crowded dusty streets is not near the peace of mind he desires. So he's taken to the Horizon, which for the most part is empty aside from the few who pop in and out of their domains. He crosses through some mountainous walls, curious.

This is when he comes across the absurdly round sheep. They bounce on stick-thin legs that look prone to snapping like twigs, an odd curled tail behind them. He's aware this is another's place, but nothing's come out to eat him or greet him, so he crouches down to take a closer look. And, possibly, to give one of the sheep a pet.

It's. Soft.

He doesn't mean to stay long, doesn't really intend to invade anyone's home, so he's getting up soon enough. But it's a quiet little place. He misses the green where the desert looms large outside the Horizon, and he can't help lingering a bit even as he's thinking about moving on.

[coerthantorment]

Their roundness is something that Estinien can also observe, at this point - though in his mind, it's more than the sheep of Abraxas are strangely horse shaped. They do retain many of the same features, but there's a quality to the karakul's curved snouts and winding tails that has been left unsatisfied. As such, he frequently visits his slide of the Horizon, continuing to care for his flock. He feels it is his duty to do so. After all, he created them.

As Geralt pauses to pet the creatures, they snuffle at him curiously, interested in this new arrival and if he has any treats. There are fenced off garden areas along the edge of the field they occupy, filled with various fruits and vegetables - a no sheep zone, by default, but they have come to expect that people being here means that it's food time.

It's not long after Geralt's arrival that he will hear a roar, however - not one of fury, or threat, but as if a call to alertness. Perhaps dragon-like. The sheep themselves don't seem bothered or afraid.

Soon after, he'll hear a familiar voice, coming form ahead. Estinien Wyrmblood has arrived, surprisingly silently. He looks as his normal self, except for the pair of dragonic wings coming from his back. His expression is serious for a moment, looking Geralt over, before his brow raises and his gaze softens.

"Well, you may as well give them something. They'll be disappointed if you don't."

jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ When he manages to be on his feet for longer than minutes at a time, he walks. He hates feeling trapped, tied down. But the city hasn't got many places for him to go to be alone: he's disliked the crowding in the past, accepted it as just another annoyance to put up with, but lately it's been overwhelmingly oppressive. Lately, even the dusty air has been so.

Perhaps it hasn't got anything to do with the people or the air. Perhaps even if he were in the open forest, he'd still find it hard to breathe.

In the end, he goes where it only feels natural, to see the one thing that will not ask questions or look at him with pity or too much concern. He brings an apple with him. ]

I'm told you've been spoiled. [ Roach certainly looks it, her coat especially shiny, more like a show horse than a working one. She nudges him. He offers up the apple, lets her crunch it happily. ] Yeah. I missed you, too.

[ He settles on a bale of hay, in the corner. Watching her grounds him and for awhile, that's where he stays: just in his horse's company, trying not to think about anything at all. ]

[cointosser]

[No matter what may happen to either of them, or between them, or around them, Geralt, to Jaskier, remains as predictable as ever. He is only ever so many places when he wants to be alone -- the woods, which they are terribly devoid of; a kitchen, to shove something in his face and promptly leave; or with his horse.

And there he finds his friend.

Both of them had remained indoors than is natural for either. Jaskier has been "recovering" in a way that no matter how much he sleeps, he still has that same bone-deep exhaustion, restless dreams, and a tightness in his arm that has not loosened. Now he's dressed himself in a loose cloak and comfortably worn boots, with only one ring adorning his hand. Conservative for Jaskier.]

Well, well. If it isn't Roach's most verbose companion. [He stops a few feet from Geralt, opening his hand to Roach. Another offer of blackberries. she slurps them up, her lips tickling his palm.] How do you feel about a walk? [He turns to Geralt after rubbing Roach's neck.] I mean you, not the horse.

ciri.

[gynvael]

[ A part of him is uncertain about lingering here at Sam's, for more than one reason. He is not, really, avoiding anyone, least of all Ciri—but he's nowhere near as familiar with Hector or Rinwell, despite his fondness for the latter. It's easier to be with Sam, who already has a sense of what the fuck even happened, and who he knows will give him the space he wants.

On the third day, he decides he's waited long enough. He'd already kept things from her while he was...out of the city. He'd rather not have her be the one to broach the topic on top of that, now that he's returned. Now that they've both had a few days to gather their thoughts. She wants to know, she needs to know, and in the end, he needs her to know, too. If she's to continue meeting Yennefer for her lessons in magic.

The sun has only just risen fully into the sky. He makes his way into the kitchen, seated by the table, and waits for Sam to leave before he leaves Ciri a short message. ]

Come for breakfast.

[wiedzminka]

[ It's a tenuous line to walk, between being attentive and overbearing, checking in on Geralt to make sure he's well and taken care of and letting anxiety carry her away into a place more pathetic than practical. Ciri knows Geralt won't appreciate her fussing and hovering, just as well as she knows that they both need to see each other again.

The first day, she was in and out frequently, using some pretense or other -- making sure Sam had what he needed, buying and bringing medicines, bandages, even clothes, bringing Geralt some items kept in their apartment. The second day, she was mostly gone, worried she'd overdone it, thinking about all the things she wants to ask and say and can't trust herself to keep back now that Geralt is getting his strength back.

The third day, as Ciri is trying to decide whether to go out for a ride or a walk, Geralt is the one who reaches out. Walk it is. She responds only with one word: Coming.

Despite the turmoil of questions in her throat, wondering why it is that Geralt called her, Ciri can't help but smile when she sees him out of bed and moving about. ]

Good morning, Geralt.

jaskier + ciri.

[gynvael]

[ The past week has seen him home (home, with Jaskier and Ciri and the rest) more often. He's almost entirely healed. Only the split down his back remains sore, though not near as it once was. He's left the bandage on, but the wound has closed and the stitches came out a few days ago. It's started to turn a familiar white-pink as the scar forms.

He still needs his space, though. Between his walks and his visits to Sam, he's not as returned home as it might seem at first glance. When Sam tells him he'll be at the so-called Dimming by the Singularity—it does not sit well with him, but he understands why Sam would want to be there. If he were to be honest, it'd be worthwhile to have someone he can trust at that crater, who'll be able to tell him what happened. Geralt remains in the city: outside the Horizon, near his people, where he can keep an eye on the situation in Cadens. Just in case. The Dimming, the festivals of disdain against all things magic. It leaves him uneasy.

And he's been uneasy for awhile now.

He goes to Sam's empty home, to see if he can get some fucking sleep. He's been...better since he spoke to Sam. A little. Whether it's their conversation or simply time passing or some combination, he's at least found his connection to the Horizon more stable, more accessible, than it's been as of late. Nearly back to what it was. Sleep still eludes him most the time, though—when hasn't it?—and he's exhausted, he can feel his eyelids dragging since two days prior, and he's not interested in passing out on the floor surrounded by their home's occupants, owls and all. Sam's inn room is silent, away from prying eyes. Doesn't matter that it's only afternoon, the sun barely starting to set. He falls onto the bed, not even bothering to kick off his boots, before sinking into sleep.

The smell of blood seeps through first. Always, the smell of blood. It fills his head, sticky under his hands. A deep fire lights his veins—screaming in the distance—and then a creak that startles him awake.

His eyes snap open. He jerks upright, peering through the blackness to find— ]

Jaskier? [ Shit. He sits back, breathing in. His gaze is searching, listening for a heightened pulse that will tell him something's wrong, but the only heartbeat pounding is his own. ] The fuck are you doing here?

[cointosser]

[Jaskier has more than made a habit of showing up to Sam's to -- you know, to just say hello, and definitely not because he is checking up on his friend, or bringing him loaves of bread and bits of Hector or Rinwell's soups to eat. He is certainly not mothering the Witcher, and he is not taking care of him, nor Sam.

He just. Happens to come over so much that Sam finally gave him a key so he'd stop bothering Magpie.

Tonight is no different. He has a bag full of bread loaves and rolls, a jar of blackberry jam (yours truly, thank you), and a few jars of a vegetable stew. And, of course, with Jaskier being Jaskier, two bottles of wine.

He's begun performing again. And performing means coin. And coin means... drinks. For everyone.

Jaskier is closing the door when Geralt's growl through the dark startles him. Even after all these fucking years! Gods.] What do you mean, what am I doing here? I have a bloody key. [He's aggressively whispering, but he's not even entirely sure why he is. It's like being in a library, in Sam's house with the lights off. He taps the bendable flower tucked behind his ear, which begins to glow enough to light his way to a candle.] And you're welcome, by the way, for coming by with dinner --

[Once it's burning, he ducks towards Geralt's voice and finds his face lit a pale pallor. Jaskier pauses, setting the candle down, sitting beside him.] Are you all right? Nightmare, I imagine?

marlo (mid-dec.)

[gynvael]

[ This is, possibly, the last position he wants to be in. His preference is to continue sliding under the radar, but he's no longer certain how possible that is. He can't think of a scenario where what occurred will not eventually come to light: whether now, in a week, months down from the road. It's not exactly been the most secretive ordeal. And normally, he'd not bother if his capture had been all there was to it, but the fact that Thorne had broken into his mind means his silence might be taken as...questionable.

It's equally possible they're already aware somehow and simply don't care to follow up on it. That's the most ideal outcome—that they consider him and Thorne's interest in him of no importance—but. He needs to know one way or another where things stand. He'd rather not wait to be caught off guard.

His request to see the Prime Minister is brief, but courteous; then he gives it however long it takes until he's granted an audience. From there, he finds himself in the small area outside her office. It's a less extravagant, less fussy setting, at least, than a court.

He leans against the wall, waiting, until he's let in. He's done pretty much nothing to make himself presentable for this meeting, and it shows, including remnants of the injuries he still bears. ]

[abraxasnpcs]

[Geralt is shortly ushered into the Prime Minister's office. It's dominated by a large wooden desk, a crest of swords hanging on the wall behind it. There's a fire crackling away in fireplace set into the wall. A large hunting dog sprawled by the fire lifts its head to give him a look, then resumes dozing.]

Welcome. I'm sorry I can't offer you too much time, but the Free Cities never sleep so I rarely do.

[The Prime Minister herself stands to gesture towards the seat on the other side of her desk.]

But by the looks of you, you're real eager to talk to me.

jaskier (post-hangout).

[gynvael]

[ By the end of their outing, his flower is askew in his hair, but it does remain woven in there as intended. He walks with Ciri back to their place, before parting with her there. (She's had a good time, he can tell, with a light flush on her cheeks from the alcohol and a shine in her eyes. That's all that matters to him, is all that he needs to know to make everything worthwhile.)

He means to leave Jaskier there, too, until Jaskier declares he'll walk him back to Sam's. It isn't difficult to sense that Jaskier may be seeking a bit more; Geralt knows the poet inside out, after all these years. Either way, he won't reject the company. The night air is cool—a far cry from the heated summer evenings their first month in the desert. It's still not his preference, all this sand and dust, and he misses the damn snow, but—he supposes, given enough time, one can begin to get used to anything. Cadens is not home, but it's got enough of what he can start to consider, perhaps, a second home. A home away from home, with the people who matter to him close at hand.

Jaskier chatters on while they walk; he answers sparsely, but his attention more focused than it's been in a long while. His friend is in good spirits, and for the first time since his return, he lets himself absorb some of it. When they reach Sam's room, he pushes open the door—holds it briefly for Jaskier to enter, which is about as courteous as he ever gets. ]

[cointosser]

[It is not really for any specific reason that Jaskier insists -- not offers -- that he will return to Sam's with Geralt. No specific reason outside that... as he'd said before, he misses his skulking about. And he misses having time alone with Geralt, where it is the two of them and nothing is complicated. He doesn't watch his words with Geralt, and he knows in return the Witcher does not watch his own.

Ciri's made off with his hat and Jaskier, even to his own surprise, has allowed it. He walks with his longer hair a bit mussed up from its wearing, but the flower still glowing behind his ear. His eyes are a hint glassy with the ale he had earlier, where they indulged in good drink and warm meat pies at his favorite tavern to play at.

No specific reason, except recalling he woke Geralt from a nightmare, and that. He must be having them again. From... what happened. Yet he comes here to sleep alone, while Sam is miles away.

Mostly he speaks of the show they watched, the mismatched lovers, the weather effects the mage behind the curtain uses that were missed -- considering the Dimming's apparently fucked about with everything -- (and the promise he'll take them back to see Sypha's real work). All very exciting things, and yet the way Geralt holds the door open for him in obvious invitation is the first thing tonight that has truly set his heart aflutter.

He takes the invitation with a smile, entering behind him. The door shuts softly.] Tell me you enjoyed yourself tonight. You can even lie, if you must.

yennefer (post-dimming).

[gynvael]

[ Coming into the Horizon to seek Yen out still feels new. He's spent so long avoiding her in this place. Both of them, avoiding each other, not wanting to cross paths, and now that they'd been inevitably pulled together by Thorne (by this world), he's suddenly found himself wanting to see her more and more. Wanting to be near her.

This time, there's more to it than just that, though. He knows exactly where she was during the Dimming. And while he may not like it, he understands, too. Thorne demands loyalty. The Queen demands loyalty. If she found a single intimate moment between them enough to question Yennefer's standing in court, it's not hard to anticipate how she'd interpret Yen's refusal to perform a task for the kingdom's behalf after Geralt had mysteriously vanished from the cells. He hates the precarious position she's put herself in. That they're on such unsteady, unpredictable ground. (He's fucking worried.)

He takes a walk around the Horizon, circling it once first with his wolf by his side as though he were simply in this place for some time alone. But somewhere on his route the second time, he slips right through the illusion that hides Yennefer's tent. He's aware she could hide her injuries from him, if she has any. He wants to believe she will not. Either way, he'll find out as he steps inside without announcement, ducking into the familiar space. ]

[vixening]

[ yennefer is not actually in the horizon, when geralt first appears to her domain, but rather is inside her room at the castle, slowly healing a string of bruising along her ribcage that she had let sit a little too long in favor of balancing out and siphoning her chaos where she would have rather put it. she doesn't trust the healers in the castle, either, despite the assurances that had been made that they were fine and capable. yennefer has survived worse wounds, had been brought down into the dungeons with one in particular, when she'd spoken up one too many times to the guards, when she...

well. either way. it has been a few days since the dimming, and yennefer hadn't found any specific reason to enter the horizon. she knew that she would soon enough, knew that the information she'd gathered was something geralt and ciri would need to know, but it was all a delicate balance. not wanting to seem ager to share information outside of the castle, not wanting there to appear to be anyone more she needed to keep contact with. things with the queen had been well enough, and with her intentions and loyalty to thorne proven once more, she was feeling settled enough.

so, when geralt passes by along the outskirts of her domain that first time, she feels a small smile cross her lips. considers where she needs to be today (nowhere in particular) and who might come looking for her (today? no one that she knows) and the fact she probably would have done the reaching out, herself, soon enough - before yennefer closes her eyes, focuses with an ease she had learned back in aretuza, and opens them in the horizon just as he ducks inside the flap of the tent. she appears there just as she had been in her room - her top pulled up to reveal bandages around her ribs, her fingers hovering just above her skin. her eyes turn over her shoulder to him, equal parts coy as genuinely bright to see him, before her attention turns to the wolf at his side. ]

I wasn't expecting visitors. [ though her tone is entertained, more than anything, as she pulls back down her blouse and moves to stand and face them.

if he thought she would have hid her injuries from him, he may find himself surprised - the cuts and scrapes and bruises of her are still there, just as they are back in the castle itself. the worst of her wounds have been tended to, mostly by her own hand, but there is a fair amount of her that carries with it what happened at the singularity. ]

I would have cleaned up.