Geralt z Rivii (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gynvael) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2021-12-07 11:20 am
gynvael) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-12-07 11:20 am
Entry tags:
- !npc,
- alucard; the hierophant,
- amos burton; the lovers,
- cirilla of cintra; the devil,
- estinien wyrmblood; the hermit,
- father maxwell; the wheel of fortune,
- geralt of rivia; the hanged man,
- hector; the magician,
- himeka sui; the fool,
- jaskier; the sun,
- relena peacecraft; death,
- sam wilson; justice,
- yennefer of vengerberg; the chariot
[ OPEN / CLOSED ] i think i found a way to kill the sun
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![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))
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
no subject
[Either it'll do something or do nothing, so at least there's no fear of poisoning the Witcher. It was about the only thing he could think of to get Geralt during all of... this. The more the days pass, the more Jaskier realizes why he cannot get rid of this grip over his heart, that leaves his muscles bundled tight and his sleep restless.
Geralt is definitely here. He's safe. Healing. He's taken care of, and they have confirmed the friends they can rely on outside of Cadens. And yet, all of that means nothing, really. When it could happen again. They had nothing to stop the mages that had taken Geralt, and he imagines that will not change. There are unstoppable forces that move them all -- the sweep of an army, perhaps the grip of a djinn, or Destiny herself. It's only that Geralt has always been able to protect himself from men. Jaskier has also relied on him to keep both of them safe.
Ugh. He'd never used to worry about these things. He never worried at all! If he sees Yennefer again, he knows her first comment will be of the new wrinkles he's sprouted.
He leads the way to the cemetery, uncharacteristically quiet himself. He does not fill the silence with idle chatter, having nothing to really say. The state he's lived in for the past weeks is nothing to talk about. This one thing -- like his bread -- is the only note of pride he can find.
As they approach the outer walls of the cemetery, he finally speaks up.] Hopefully Alucard isn't about; he's been far pricklier lately. Though I suspect he's a wolf more than not.
[He stops Geralt by the first wall. Just inside is a long line of blackberry bushes, thick and swollen with berries, with an organized chaos to their long tangles of thorns.] So? What do you think? It's not the nicest, of course, but they're just berries. I thought I'd let them grow rather free.
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As they step into the cemetery, he can see it: the berries, the tangle of plants. Hm. It's not bad. That's what Jaskier's been doing? Growing berries in his absence? He almost wants to laugh. It is incredibly like his friend and maybe—
Maybe it's just good. To know some things never change. He picks a ripened berry from a vine. ]
Mm. They're sweet. [ Out here, amongst the headstone, the noise of the city has faded some. He needn't ask why Jaskier has brought him to this place. It isn't about the garden. Or not only about the garden. He knows Jaskier well enough to understand that Jaskier is, in fact, pleased with his little creation and will show it off at the slightest excuse. But he knows the other reason for it, too.
He sits down on a patch of grass, underneath the vines—careful, more heavily than usual—and waits for Jaskier to join him. ] Ciri tells me you've been bread making.
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Of course they are. What kind of idiot makes sour berries? [But the smile he shoots Geralt is soft around the edges. Roach had liked them very much as well, and he'd even stuck a few in his loaves for experimentation. Of course, they'd all sunk to the bottom and made a mess in the pan.
Jaskier does join him, crossing his legs neatly underneath. The grass, too, is his; soft and even, but growing wildly as the soil rights itself over time. A few yards away are flourishes of flowers across graves, ringing around the headstones. Lilies with spots of orange across their petals, and golden centers. They rest their petaled heads against the headstones like lovers left behind. Dandelions pop up randomly through the grass, swaying with the wind.
And further still is Alucard's cactus, now with smaller cactuses spotted around it, all flourishing with pink and white buds.]
Ciri talks too much. [He turns to Geralt with a tugging of his lips, his tone deeply affectionate.] If she's to tell you everything, what stories will I regale you with? [From the slow way his friend sat, he begins to think that potion did nothing at all.] Worry not, there's plenty still for you to devour yourself. As I'm sure you are far too eager to, of course.
[The bushes around them sway as a breeze cuts through the cemetery. After all of Jaskier's work, the place no longer smells of dirt or the dead.] Nothing goes sour there anymore. The bread doesn't mold, even from weeks ago. The berries never rot when I pick them. [His gaze moves down to his hand, where his fingers rub together.
He is not sure when to bring it up. Or if he even should. Yet not once has he ever hidden anything from the Witcher. Except, perhaps, the depths of his odorous inclinations when returned from a hunt.] Another gift of magic from our most stony patron, I believe.
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The potion has helped. It's only that a potion made for human consumption will never match the strength of the elixirs his body has been made to absorb. It isn't important. He's healing, day by day. The pain is not what keeps him awake at night. Not really. Though he can admit it's not helped either. Pain and, worse than that, the fucking incessant itching as his skin knits together.
He listens to Jaskier speak and complain in equal quantities, the smallest curl to his lips. Only when Jaskier mentions that fruit does not rot in his hands does Geralt look over. He raises an eyebrow. ]
I thought it was a new spell you learned. [ Another thing Jaskier has been granted without asking? That's. Unusual. He has noticed, though. As early as the days after the wraiths, when Jaskier had picked up a days old loaf of bread and it'd tasted freshly baked.
Only now does it strike Geralt that— ] You didn't realize?
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But all he does outwardly is huff.]
No. And don't make me sound like a fool for not realizing sooner, that these things I do, these impossibilities, are mine and mine alone.
[Why would he ever assume himself capable of them? Magic is not his to bear, and it is, and -- fuck, he's turning into a mess. As the breeze blows, the stray hairs loose from the tie he's had them in wriggle across his face. He scratches his nose, sharply annoyed by them.]
I haven't studied for weeks. Everything I write's been shite, barely fit to burn. So I make bread, and I grow these little flowers, and I stop things from winding towards the inevitable death and decay they are meant to.
[He isn't sure what he's saying, or if it has any meaning at all. Jaskier is a boat adrift in unfamiliar waters, seeing new sights... and the boat is very upset about it all.
His throat tightens. His fingers rub harder, the nails clipping into his skin. He wishes he only brought him here to show off flowers and berries.] I need a new hobby. Perhaps there's a spell to commune with the plants, next, that I may study. Or turn into a dragon. Everyone around here is so keen on turning into dragons.
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Though obviously, this is about more than fruit and bread. He blinks, and then frowns, but does not interrupt. He does...realize. The toll it's taken on everyone. He wishes it weren't the case, that none of them care so fucking much over him, but at the same time, he also—he appreciates it. All of their efforts. Even if he hasn't the first fucking idea what to do in response. Now that he's back, now that he's home. Somehow he doesn't feel like he's home. Not entirely. Maybe a part of him was left behind in that room in Thorne.
Carefully, he lays his hand over Jaskier's for a brief moment to still it. He can hear Jaskier's heart beginning to speed up, hear his agitation. ]
I know it's been shit. [ As an understatement. He pauses. He's aware Jaskier has been cautious—not pressing, not asking. It's not what he wants. He's not made of glass and he doesn't care for Jaskier to wear himself out, keeping it all inside. He knows how his friend is. Jaskier does not do well keeping what's on his mind buried. Besides, if there are topics Geralt has no desire to grant details to, he's perfectly capable of saying so. ] You've wanted to talk to me. So talk.
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What a bold assumption. What makes you think I wanted to?
[He doesn't pull his hand away, which is the only indication that, perhaps, the touch has steadied him. A little. For a moment. He has never been more relieved in his life to see Geralt in that desert. Alive, though he was hurt. Again. And still he barely knows what happened.
It isn't entirely for Geralt's comfort he's avoided it. A part of him -- a part too large to ignore -- does not want to know. Because it will mean things. And those things will affect him. He doesn't want to take on anymore. He's so godsdamn tired.
Jaskier sighs.]
I went to your domain. With Amos. [He doesn't believe Geralt will mind that part, if they had some sort of... bond.] To look for a note, a sign. There was a door with a lock on it, but it did not remain so when I went to open it. And...
[His throat constricts, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Amos's reaction. What it meant. It's not fair to throw this on Geralt after so many years, but it is Jaskier's first time living through it, and he cannot apologize for his heart.] I saw what lay in your basement. [He swallows the lump that bobs in his throat. It's really not only the basement. It's the basement, and the diagrams, and Geralt coming home with welts flaying his back open.] I promise, we needn't talk about it. I simply wanted you to know, so it doesn't... so you don't think I meant it as some sort of -- of violation.
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His brows furrow a hint. It's the only sign he's listening, waiting for what Jaskier is really trying to tell him. He hears it a moment later: a basement. Geralt had created the upper floors, the main hall, the yard. But he had not created the floor beneath the keep. It isn't really that the lab is a place of horrors he refuses to enter. It has its uses these days. They don't avoid it as if it haunts them, he and the other Witchers; that's not their way. But out there, back home, Kaer Morhen is real. It does not manifest shadows and ghosts. The Horizon is different. He'd been afraid of what might happen if he placed it there, set loose with what hides in the corners of his mind.
He supposes now he knows. That Jaskier had seen it recreated not as it is now, but as it was long ago. With blood freshly staining the floors, with. Everything. He makes a soft noise. He needn't wonder how it came to be. He remembers crawling through the woods, the likely poor decision he'd made one night to try and leave a message in the Horizon. He'd entered for the briefest minute or two, and then: nothing. It must've been enough, then, to spawn...that. ]
They searched through my memories. For information. [ His voice is tight. He distinctly does not look at Jaskier, though he hears it in his breathing, that Jaskier is...he just can't. Do it right now. ] I tried to keep them out, but. [ But. Fuck. ] In the midst of it, something came loose and— [ Yennefer. He doesn't say it. He can't talk about it yet. Not that. ] —it must've affected the Horizon. I didn't know.
[ He'd have never left that place for just anyone to stumble onto. The irony is, if he had not trusted Jaskier so thoroughly, Jaskier would likely have never been able to open that door. But Kaer Morhen, though Jaskier hadn't come to visit yet, has always been open for his friend. ]
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His gaze lifts. Keep them out?
He frowns. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And how should it affect the Horizon?
Again, his fingers rub. No. He knows. He -- he can guess.]
Now that I've properly warned you, you know. [Not, he thinks, that Geralt is the type to run away from this sort of memory. He's always been very bad at running, actually. (Except from Destiny.)] Anyway, there it is. We can pretend it's not there, as it changes nothing -- as we so often do -- and move on.
[Sometimes you simply find horror-basements in your best friend's brain and you quietly accept them.] You might think of cleaning the place every now and then, by the way. It's terribly dingy.
[Perhaps sometimes it really is better to run away from these things.]
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Move on. They can pretend. Yeah. How fitting, that he should come here, for once almost ready to talk—thinking that maybe he can, maybe he will find the words, maybe it will be worth trying with the one person here on this fucking world who has known him the longest—only to realize that for the first time since they've met, Jaskier does not want to hear from him.
Not that he can hold blame. Who would? About any of this shit?
It's for the best. He knows how to keep to himself, doesn't have to struggle to put what remains to be said away. He's confessed enough already. He places the dandelion on the grass and watches the wind send it sweeping across the ground.
The weight on his chest grows heavier. He moves on. ] Amos was with you?
[ He'd forgotten, actually. That he was meant to meet the man. (He was meant to do a lot of things.) ]
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Right.)]
Yes. Saw it too. He... well, let's say I imagine that's far more reaction than he's shown for most things. But I assume he won't ask about it. Doesn't seem the type.
[Taciturn. A little more verbose than Geralt, but even less nosy somehow.
He doesn't think Geralt asks because he cares much, honestly.
Jaskier takes a deep breath. Steels himself. He plants a hand on the grass and watches as, as casual as a flutter of wings, a rose begins to grow between his fingers. A bright, blood red. It's not the only thing he wanted to say. Though funny he brought him to a cemetery to say it -- or, no, that's not irony at all, is it?] I'm not saying you have to. [Rosevines curl under his hand, carefully spreading out from his hand.] But if you want to -- and yes, yes, I know the very ironic comedy in asking you to speak -- I... I can listen. No matter what it was. What you endured.
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He studies the blooming rose. He wonders if Jaskier can sense it, how he is already beginning to close himself off—to grasp the first reason he can find to do so, perhaps. (Is that what he's doing?) Jaskier need not be burdened further. His friend has seen enough, understood enough. And he doesn't expect anyone else to shoulder the weight of his memories. The offer lingers there, waiting. He wants to take it as much as he doesn't. ]
She reached for it. [ The words spill out of him, unbidden. ] Those memories. To drown out all else, when the mages broke through.
[ Not on purpose, he knows. It just...he doesn't know why he's telling Jaskier. He's not interested, hearing his friend angry or upset on his behalf. That's not what he wants. Maybe it's a simple matter of needing to say it out loud, to someone. ]
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Jaskier knows that's the point, and yet. And yet he does not expect an answer.
It's receiving one that makes him jerk; all at once the rose withers and dies in a moment, in mere seconds, the very life choked out of it. He hadn't meant to, barely has mind to even notice how the blackened leaves now curl in on themselves, how the petals have fallen.
Geralt says only enough for Jaskier to pick up the pieces himself. She. He goes through women in his mind, but the list is terribly short when it comes to Geralt. When it comes to... Thorne. Of course it's she. It's always She, with a capital S, because She certainly is always there when things are right and proper fucked.
Who else could it be? Who else interferes and makes things worse? Gloating around, searching out her little feelers for more power? He begins to feel that sharp sting of anger -- mixed with that cold, awful attraction he prefers to deny to himself even now -- and it nearly rises to his face. Perhaps it does, for a second: the darkening of his brows and a snarl to his lip. But. To drown out all else.]
Yennefer was there. [A statement that he's quite sure does not need confirmation. He closes his eyes, lifts his hands to rub his face. Yennefer was there, because surely she has spent her time ingratiating herself to the nobles of Thorne. Perhaps to the monarchs themselves. To the other mages. Gloating about her power. Showing it off. Helping --
Yennefer was there, while mages were digging through the Witcher's memories. To find what? is the obvious question, but it could mean so many things. Yennefer, reaching into his mind, and -- and she found that basement somehow? Is that why it had appeared?
It must be. Why it had only appeared in the scant seconds Geralt could manage to maintain the Horizon. Unbidden. Unwanted. Like the shadow of the girl.
Jaskier is quiet, his words steady, yet slow. As he picks them out before Geralt shuts the door in his face.] Did she know what she was reaching for? Did it... did it work?
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Did she know? He wants to say, she didn't. Because he'd seen it, the fear that flickered in her eyes. He had turned to her, knowing that whatever she had to do would not be pretty. He'd just not expected it to be...that. The doubt lingers. Would she have done that to him? For the girl? (For herself?) Did it matter so long as Ciri remained safe?
His lack of an answer to Jaskier's first question serves as answer enough. ] It worked. I should think.
[ It must've, or Yennefer would've] passed on a different message to him through Kylo in those cells. He can't say himself. He remembers not much after that. Only blood and screams. ]
The mage started to see a figure. [ It is by way of explanation, why Yennefer would have done this. Neither he nor Yennefer have explicitly said why she'd remained in Thorne. It'd seemed...secondary at the time, given that was not the only reason she stayed. He knows, as always, she has her own purpose, her own agenda, but he remains of the belief that Ciri is the priority no matter what. Yennefer is well aware of how important the girl is. But that figure. Geralt knows there can only be one figure that might sit at the forefront of his mind, especially in that moment. ] They can't know about Ciri.
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Jaskier releases a breath, his shoulders sagging.
That explains things. Both what the mages were trying to see, perhaps, but also what Geralt was so desperate to protect. What a bizarre thing it is to behold now, after all of those years of Geralt refusing to even hear a word about his Child of Destiny. And even now, without Abraxas, he would still be running. Jaskier would never have met her. She would be a child in a womb; a concept. Barely even a name.
How his heart hurts now to think of a time where he doesn't know her. Without asking Geralt, he knows he feels the same.]
They won't. [Jaskier takes his friend's hand and squeezes it without prompting, looking him in the face.] You protected her, and you did a fine job of it. Through all of that. It's more than anyone else would have tried. I don't think I... [And then he lets him go.] I'll look into spells of the mind, that can protect them. They may be something. Something to safeguard memories.
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The thoughts go unvoiced. They don't need to be said. Jaskier's hand moves off of his. He curls his fingers around his medallion. (He still can't decide what she was doing with it in her possession, before he ever landed in Thorne. Why she would have it, why she would hold onto it, where the hell she got it.) ]
There may be. [ He glances away again. Solutions are good. He can work with solutions. And he knows he's not the only one vulnerable—that it isn't a good sign for anyone that they could so quickly beak through his defences. ] Spells are more difficult to find around these parts, but someone may know a thing or two.
[ Not that he intends to be taken again. He stretches his legs out on the grass, sitting back on his hands. His ribs shift with a piercing ache, though the bones have largely knitted back together, leaving a heavy bruise up his side. He knows it was Jaskier's doing. He'd passed out, woken up with his knee and his ribs healing better than they should've. ]
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Jaskier's laugh is more like a croak.]
I do believe that's the most optimistic thing I've ever heard you say. [Already they are moving about as far from optimistic as possible. The Great White Wolf, snatched away as easily as a babe. Torn open. His mind cracked like a nut. And all of it sounded as easy as anything for them. For Thorne.
He should have known it was them. Yet he'd truly believed they were safe. For if Thorne had that much power, why was it only Geralt who was taken? What of the other runaways?
The question, spoken in his head, answers itself. Because Geralt is connected to someone there. (Is it truly Yennefer's fault? Could he believe she would use Geralt like that? That love could mean so little to her?)]
Who gave it to you? The medallion. [He can see Geralt messing with it in the corner of his eye. Exactly like the one he's worn for years. Identical in every way, from what Jaskier can see. Does it vibrate now? When he raises flowers from nothing, does the medallion sing?] Was it her, too?
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He'd slipped the replacement medallion Jaskier had obtained him in a drawer. He's already decided what to do with it. Just needs time to visit a blacksmith, when he's recovered a bit more. ]
By way of another. [ Speaking of friends. His eyes slide towards Jaskier. ] Your smouldering muse. Kylo Ren. He met me in the cells. Arranged...something with one of Thorne's mages.
[ A woman, a sorceress. Obviously not in league with the queen. He was only there for a few days in the castle and already he could sense the wheels turning, the vines tangling. He's never one to concern himself with politics, but it's beginning to feel too much like politics are concerning themselves with him. Because if the monarchy falls, what happens? A country with a void bodes ill for everyone.
He sighs. Everything is shifting far too quickly. ]
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Oooh. Smouldering muse, I like that. [Wait a second. He jerks his head towards Geralt.] You're telling me, [He starts, and for the first time in the conversation he is animated and no longer so much a shirking violet, pulling away from what has happened to his friend,] Kylo-fucking-Ren gave you a perfect replication of your old medallion, while you were imprisoned in Thorne's dungeons, that was passed onto him from Yennefer, prior to your escape, as orchestrated by a Thornean mage under Kylo Ren's request?
[His head spins. He feels abruptly as if, somehow, another Conjunction has happened, and he has been smashed into some other sphere where this story makes sense, cohesively. He raises a hand as if he has to stop Geralt from launching into more words, even though he's clearly said his piece.]
I am experiencing so many emotions right now. [It's almost a joke, except it isn't. He has yet to check in with Kylo Ren at all since their escape; their relationship was far from tenuous while he was in Thorne, but Jaskier could guess where his loyalties lay, and it's certainly not with those who scurried about and escaped into portals. The conversations with him, and the meetings they set up -- they were not frivolous things, and neither were they particularly heartfelt. While Yennefer is evil and rude and one of the worst people Jaskier's ever met, he doesn't take Kylo Ren as a sentimental sort, either.] H-how... whhhhy would Yennefer trust Kylo Ren enough to -- augh. She's probably fucking him, isn't she? Oooh, how I could wring that weird little goose neck of hers.
[She probably did it on purpose, hearing that precious ballad he'd rung through Thorne's halls. (He still thinks it's one of his best.) Well, the joke is on her. Kylo Ren thinks he's supremely sexy, and carried him across literal fire, and he can bet five crowns that Yennefer has never even seen his volcano. So. Hah.]
If it's from Kylo Ren, then I bet my left asscheek that Ronan made it. Abrasive git. I couldn't even get a bloody pierogi out of him. [Or a lute, which he never asked for, which probably would have happened, maybe, if he had. Well, fuck him for asking for a treat instead of an Elven lute crafted out of magic. He bets it would've been fuck-ugly, anyway.] How on Melitele's green fucking earth did you manage to receive aid from Thorne sympathizers? I'm sorry, but Yennefer is not that convincing.
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She did not convince him. [ That much he can grasp. She would have used someone else were she manipulating another, not a man who seems to have the proclivities of a rock. No. She and Kylo have made an alliance, for their own reasons. And he can surmise what those reasons are given who had captured specifically, who had placed him behind closed doors in that throne room. The distaste Kylo held for the mage boy at the queen's side. ] She found aid with those who sympathize with Thorne's plight, but not its queen.
[ What was it. Amnesty? He believes the man when he stated that was their desire, to grant amnesty—no doubt in hopes of wooing those who fled to return—and he can see how a prisoner locked away and torn to shreds would interfere with those goals. He can also gather why Yen would forge an alliance with someone like that. ]
We know Thorne fears the destruction of their world. But the queen... [ What does she want? ] I don't know what she's after.
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The queen? Oh, for fuck's sake. That's bad. Ooh, that seems very bad, a monarch coming out of the shadows. All that time performing and canoodling, I did not once catch sight of her. Barely even a word.
[So in their absence, Kylo Ren has somehow allied himself with Yennefer -- or the other way around, whatever -- and Thorne sympathizers working against the queen?
It's juicy. It's terribly juicy, and his fingers are rubbing together. He can't help it; the lyrics rise from nothing. He tamps them down. There is not a chance on this sphere he will be setting a target on his back for the queen of any kingdom.
He really needs to set up a line with Kylo Ren again. This is far too... much. Too much to not be aware of, especially if Thorne has their sights on his friend.
He shakes his head, pulling his legs up so he can lean his arms on them. Perfect place to put his face, his hands holding it, his breath a sigh.] Power. Aren't they always? It's what everyone always wants. And if she is sanctioning kidnappings and tortures, it means... well, it's like to mean she has her sights on something specific. The Singularity, of course, is an easy guess, but I imagine it's not just that. Not when they already had pieces of it through us.
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Power is broad. He knows she's attempted to transfer the link to the Singularity to one of her own people. It failed, but...something tells him she had not pulled that stunt for the sake of the peasants. She would want it for herself. To access the one thing no one native to this world can. Is that true? It's hard to conclude much, with how little he knows, but it isn't unheard of for a monarch to crave that kind of power. ]
Tell no one. [ Jaskier already knows, but it feels important enough to be said. Until they know more, he's not willing to discuss any of this outside of the few he trusts. The information feels too dangerous to hold. If the Free Cities catches wind of instability in Thorne's court—he'd rather not go there. ] I need to decide what to do with the prime minister here before we worry about a court across the land. She has spies in her city.
[ And if he waits too long to bring this information forth, well. Who the hell knows. None of this sits right. He needs to talk to Sam about it. The man is the only one he knows of who's spoken with Marlo more than once. ]
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[Look, he's still working on the spell with the birds. Or... well. He had been working on it. He has not worked on much for nearly a month, now. Without the efforts of Hector and Rinwell to ply himself and Ciri with food, he's not sure much would've ever been accomplished. At the very least, they and Red had both helped find Geralt's camp, as helpful as it'd been. (Read: none. He's not even sure Ciri's brought it up. Perhaps they shouldn't. What's a bit of murder between a man and his friend's daughter?)
He rubs his hands together, only now noticing the dried up, dead rose. A frown crosses his face. He hadn't meant to do that.]
Who was the mage? The one from our original escape?
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[ Or he could, but he doubts that'd be pleasant. It'll be unpleasant either way. He's fairly certain word must've come around, or it will eventually, that something happened to him and that something involves Thorne's interest in the Free Cities. Secondary matter or not, he's not interested in sitting around until someone comes to arrest him or investigate him or press him on why he would have kept silent on the situation.
He's already nosed enough around their outpost as it is. (How does he always end up here?)
He looks over. ] No. Someone situated within their court. I didn't get a name.
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[He wasn't for spying, exactly, but Sam had certainly had no complaints on the utility of the bird.
He drops his arm, looking back.]
Not that I blame you, but it doesn't narrow things down. [Who would be willing to portal someone out of Thorne, especially a prisoner of the queen? Someone assured they would receive no blowback.
It's a lot to take in. Gods knew that Geralt's head must have been spinning, taking it all in. All these hierarchies, the traitors, the possibilities these alliances may mean. And here they had been in Cadens for months, hoping that their escape would not come crawling back to nip at their heels.
A breeze moves through the cemetery, bringing the scent of freshly turned soil, the sweet notes of the blackberries. The dead rose crumbles to nothing as he touches it again, and he ignores the poetic omen it certainly must represent.] I know it does not mean much, hearing it... but I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened to you. Whatever you need, Geralt, if you can think of a thing. It's yours.
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