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

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[ 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

discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

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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. ]

Edited 2021-12-08 21:35 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Edited 2021-12-08 10:59 (UTC)

[ 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?

Edited 2021-12-09 06:24 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Edited 2021-12-09 17:47 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2021-12-11 15:49 (UTC)

[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.]

[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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ The moment Sam goes up the steps, Geralt hears him. He doesn't move, just waits for Sam to enter the kitchen before he turns to glance over his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say, And? in reply. He takes one of the bottles set in front of him. Yeah. He knows. The top pops off, and he hands it back. ]

Same as ever. Decorating again. [ He isn't here to see Julie this time, but he had seen her not too long ago. She'd been one of the first he'd sought out—her and Nadine. It's strange to recognize that they would be worried about him, but. He does know he wouldn't be here without them. And that they'd helped him without asking for anything in return. He owes them a lot, probably more than he can repay, but at the same time, he understands it isn't about repayment. Not in that way. ] I should ask you the same.

[ Easy to see how Sam looks worn around the edges these days. Between Alina disappearing, Mal reappearing, he understands. He hates how complicated it's all growing. How much has been weighing on all of them. And maybe it's easier to think about Sam, too, about problems that are not his own, than dwelling on what happened. He's still not spoken to Yennefer, isn't altogether sure he wants to (he does). Hasn't said much to Ciri or Jaskier about any of it. He knows he should, that it'll come up eventually whether he wants it to or not. Their quarters are tight, he can't exactly ride out to the desert as before, and it will not go unnoticed for long that he's not been sleeping much.

He tips back the beer, hooking his foot behind the stool's footrest. He's moving less stiffly than he'd been before, though it's clear he's still healing. ]

[ Despite Hector's presence in and out of their home, they've spoken little. Geralt was rarely there in the first place and then he was missing for a good three weeks. Not a lot of room for conversation.

He minds not at all avoiding the events that transpired. They're not a topic he wants to discuss. ]

I'd hate to hunt something making an honest living. [ It sounds like a joke, but it really isn't. He tips his head towards the blacksmith in question who's got his sword and pendant. ] Waiting for work done.

[ 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.

[ The first time he enters the Horizon, he does not visit that room. The stairs that Jaskier and Amos found leading to nowhere have returned to their form now that he's back, opening the upper floor to the rooms that have been there. The second time, he passes by and hesitates. It feels like the scent of her is—

Stronger. Newer. His imagination, perhaps. He goes inside, anyhow. Studies the candle placed askew. He remembers Ciri found the token here and Geralt had placed it back without taking it, not wanting to think of it. He reaches for it now—lifting up the candlestick to find. There. His chest twists. He picks up the parchment. For a moment, he isn't sure he wants to open it. What he might find written there. So much of him feels unsteady and it isn't only to do with her. It's what her reaching out to him means, what it reminds him of. He's spent hours and days since his return burying it again. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to dream about it. And it's not as though he hasn't before—it will always shadow the darkest corners of his mind—but after so many decades, the memories had faded. The edges had dulled. Now they are sharpened once more, bright and ugly and too much.

The mountainside.

He slips the note in a drawer. This time, when he leaves, he takes the small silver token with him, with its engraving on the back.

The date comes, and he returns. Her silver charm has joined his medallion, tucked underneath the snarling wolf on the same chain. He's not certain what to expect, what he might find or hear out of her. He only knows he can't not see her.

He walks until he finds the mountainside she speaks of erected in the Horizon. A tent alongside it. It's a familiar scene, a familiar memory. He doesn't know why she's recalled this particular moment, but...it was the last time things were simpler. As far as anything is ever simple with them. He ducks inside the tent, finds himself surrounded by the smell of her. She's there, of course, and another time he'd have moved towards her.

Here, he does not. He stays by the edge of it, more guarded than he's ever been with her before. It isn't that he's wary of her, not like that. More that he feels inexplicably fragile. He's shown her parts of himself he's revealed to no one else, but it's always been by choice. This is different. This is something absolutely no one outside the walls of Kaer Morhen has ever known.

He's quiet, fingers pressed into his palm. ] Yen.

[ His eyes roam over the sparse interior. Everything is smooth, shiny. There's distant recognition as to what makes it a ship, even if it's not one meant to cross water, including the tight quarters. He lays a hand on the steel railing to peer down at Amos.

He hums without commenting further. He knows what Amos means. He feels the same about Kaer Morhen, where nothing needs taking care of. No repairs or cleaning or sharpening of the swords. If he does it, it's only to keep busy, for something familiar to do even if it means nothing. Probably the same reason Amos is breaking apart whatever that equipment is in his hands. He thinks he's seen it before, or something like it: Mal had carried one up to his cabin that first trip in. ]

Better. I found myself back where we started. [ Thorne. Dungeons. Good times. He doesn't add much more; there's obviously something that happened beyond that, but it's not relevant as to why he'd been gone. ] Needed a week or two, returning. Jaskier tells me you helped him look.

[ Which he appreciates. He's realizing a number of people stepped out of their way because of him—for him—and it's a fact he's still coming around to accepting. He's not usually so easily missed, nor do most care when he is. ]

[ The basket that arrives is recognizable almost immediately. No one else mysteriously leaves food and then flees. What he doesn't expect is that it has come at all. They'd parted on not so favourable terms. It'd been a poor topic to discuss, and while Geralt is not one to bother with petty grudges, he's also got other things on his mind as of late than the dhampir.

Critique does not come in written form. The contents taste decent, the shape is...unusual. (Why have they got legs? Who gave Alucard this idea? It certainly was not him.)

What Geralt does send back is his wolf, with the same basket. Inside is an accurate replica of what he'd been unable to describe to Alucard in words: standard pierogis, stuffed with cabbage and mushrooms. The kind you'd get at any tavern or inn.

There's a note attached—not in regards to the food, but an acknowledgement of something else Alucard had done. ]

Heard you helped.

Edited 2021-12-10 17:45 (UTC)

[The wolf may return with another basket, but damper for it's troubles. Alucard has not precisely called off the monster storm that now comes down in his domain, nor has he removed the thick, thorny walls that surround it. He's still not interested in many visitors yet.

But he's taken the critique. The next batch of pierogi are perfect semi-circles with impossibly precise crimping along the edges, no odd shapes to be found. They're still filled with cabbage and mushroom, but there's sage and thyme mixed in now, along with just a little bit of caraway seed to work alongside the cabbage.

And a note.]

Just smelled your horse. (Apologies to her.)

[ His wolf has been covered in glitter and rolls frequently in the snow, so a bit of dampness is acceptable. Geralt offers one of the newly shaped pierogis to the wolf for its troubles, which it devours with a wag of its tail. Geralt would swear it didn't used to wag its tail, but apparently now it does. The wolf is rapidly becoming a house pet. Perhaps it's only fitting. (He's becoming attached to places, people, he had not meant to, either.)

They're good. No complaints. He's curious if Alucard will attempt to replicate it in the real world now.

The final basket contains a sweet version, filled with wild strawberries instead. The note is not exactly an invitation, but it could be taken as one: whether in the Horizon or in Cadens. Either can apply. ]

She's right here. Apologize yourself if you want.

[Glitter? Wolf, have some respect. Even Awoocard wouldn't go that far.

The final basket is interesting. And it prompts a particular thought, because while strawberries are good, there is the clear, vivid, impossible memory of the blueberry-bourbon-pecan jam from Sam's party. All new ingredients to Alucard, and layered so perfectly that it broke him for a wonderful, perfect moment.

So yes. Sweet and filled with fruit. The returned basket is sweet as well, but mixed with a headier version of blueberries, pecans, and a dash of bourbon.]

In time. Also pretty sure all it did was prevent another trip into the desert.

[ A good steak will eradicate the dignity of even the most self-respecting wolf.

The ingredients are interesting. It's good enough that it gives even Geralt pause, who often doesn't think twice about what he's eating. Not that he doesn't enjoy a decadent meal or drink now and again. He just rarely ever gets to.

He doesn't send back any more pierogis. But he does take the tentative acceptance of the invitation as a sign that Alucard is either feeling slightly better all around or is at least no longer begrudging about what transpired between them. He does know Jaskier made the vampire a garden in the cemetery. So that's where he goes, a few days later. If Alucard's not there or doesn't wish to be disturbed, he'll still get some time away from the bustle of the city. A bit of quiet.

He brings a jug of wine. Nothing expensive, nothing special—it isn't meant to be a gift—but it's there to be shared if Alucard happens to appear in people form. If not, Geralt is content to drink it on his own where he settles against one of the headstones: close enough to the garden to be noticed, not so close he can't be safely ignored. The heaviest of his injuries are hidden under his clothes. Mostly it's just the lingering exhaustion that shows these days. ]

[ it does say something to her focus that she does not notice the changes that have been made to the keep, though she would argue that it is her own self protection. he'd built his domain around the same kaer morhen of his memories, and she is not sure she wants to know what lies beneath it. if it is something she should be thinking about at all. instead, she goes directly to the room (the room she still catches herself thinking about, the bed they'd laid on together, facing each other, a room that still feels like a version of her might have belonged, at one time, even when she knows - knows - very differently).

she does not know why she offers this place, does not know why this is what she created, as a space to find him again. perhaps it is too because she remembers this as the last time things were simple - before she'd put the pieces together about the wish, before sodden, before thorne. yennefer could easily claim that it was neutral ground, some place where things had been decently good, between them. even if she knows the truth to be different, even if she refuses to admit it is because a part of her is attempting to ease into this conversation at all.

she follows kylo and the others into the horizon. she does her part - as a mentor, as a guide. shows the new summoneds what they can accomplish, lays the groundwork for trust, between them all. and then, after an appropriate enough time passes, she disappears to her own domain - a place of shifting landscapes, of various locations around the continent, with no real effort or need to settle in any one place. it's why this mountainside could be easily hidden, why there is nothing - from an outside eye - out of the ordinary about it all.

why she makes the tent this way, the room this way, well. that is between her - her, and geralt.

she senses him entering her domain before he makes it to the tent itself, and she follows him with each step. each pause he makes. each moment that he could choose to turn around, if he'd wanted to (she hopes - desperately - he doesn't). it is with similar relief that she exhales when he steps inside, that she slows in where she'd certainly not been pacing, meeting his eyes across the space.

it is of her own doing, that she's caught by the memory of him moving towards her across this very same space. her own doing, that she stills across the room and sees him do the same, each mirror sides of the same coin. feeling fragile, feeling unsure, knowing what they both know. but it is geralt's secret that is heavy in the air, geralt's life that they both let go unsaid, and yennefer is suddenly at a loss at what to do.

he had been the one to reach out to her first, had been the one to try to make contact, but she had wanted to see him. and that want had very nearly driven her mad, but now that they were here, yennefer found herself holding her jaw tight. catching each hesitation in him, each uncertain pause.

is he scared of her? wary of her presence? does he believe she is still siding with the queen even after all of that?

yennefer pulls her eyes away from him, if only because she believes he needs the break in contact as much as she might as well, stepping forward to set down a pair of gloves she'd created simply so she could have something to wring between her palms. ] I did receive your message. [ errant letters, half-words, her name - the name only he calls her by. yen. but she hadn't responded - part of her hopes that he understands what she means by that, that she hadn't ignored him. hadn't been intentionally cutting things off in the after. ] This felt... [ she lets her eyes wander upwards, first. around the tent itself, the space she made for herself with her magic. her eyes roam across its ceiling and beams, before they finally do fall back on him. on his tightened fists. ] More discrete. [ safer she doesn't say. untraced by eyes in thorne.

the next few moments are filled with yennefer simply watching him - trying to gauged as much as she can about his wellbeing, his stance, his levels of pain, his general state, as she can from him. she'd seen what the queen had done to him first hand, had watched his skin and muscle split open.

without thinking, she steps towards him. just once, before she pulls herself to another stop - uncertain, and then hating herself for that uncertainty, making it out that she'd been moving towards the table, instead. ] A seat? Or do you plan to stand in the doorway the whole time?

[Maybe that is the difference between a witcher and the hunters from Hector's homeland. They would never have acknowledged that monsters could coexist with humans. Hector is at least 80% certain he has nothing to fear from Geralt, but reassurance like this is always welcomed, joking thought it may seem.]

Oh? Make sure that one doesn't overcharge you. He does good work, but if he gets thirsty partway through, he'll fuck off for a drink and tack on time and ale to your total.

[Hector's had enough time to observe the habits of at least the closest forges in competition to his. He is trying to live a peaceful like here in Cadens, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to gather useful intel just in case. And because Geralt is a friend of a ...friend... Hector is passing along a friendly warning.]

[That's...fair, actually, and impossible to argue with.

Thank Sam for the pierogi inspiration there, Geralt. Alucard's still a lot in love with the jam.

He's actually doing his own cemetery work when Geralt gets there. Having cleared up the rubble, Alucard has moved to reassembly of large and easily fixable pieces, learning too much about masonry on his own for it to actually be a good thing. (He has, at least, gone to the trade district and asked for some initial help earlier on in this part of the project. Now it's just him.)

Today, the task is to just finish attaching the top part of an utterly destroyed headstone. The remaining pieces that sit on a grey canvas have been put back together, the masonry fissures disrupting the perfectly carved text, but the lines aren't as thick as they used to be in earlier attempts. He's applying pressure to secure the thing in place when he hears someone approach. And--

--okay look, he now unfortunately has a good sense of what Geralt smells like, blame Ciri and Jaskier.]

Over here. [The tone is neutral, and Alucard's voice isn't exactly loud.] I'll have to clean up the work station, and that'll be a bit.

[ sam has been (had been, had, before all this mess) getting used to the little ways that geralt was already ahead of him. his super hearing, smell, tracking abilities, the fact that (which isn’t so surprising, really) he always seems to be entrusted with people’s lives. sam had been getting used to not being sneaky, though he supposes it’s more of a ‘getting used to again’. he can manage it, had been managing it, and now he has to remind himself here too.

geralt knew he would come - could probably hear him coming from out on the driveway - and still he looks up, not surprised, but casual. and? his look asks, and sam snorts. ] Alright, point made.

[ it’s almost natural - handing off a beer, geralt uncapping it, taking it back - existing in this space together. this kitchen. sam leans back against the counter and crosses an arm under the one holding the beer, shaking his head with a smile. ] That woman has a better handle on the holiday schedule than a freaking calendar. Which one’s she after now?

[ geralt comment gets a kind of huff of a laugh from him. alright, touché - sam had talked to julie. touched base as soon as geralt was settled and whole and sleeping. it was wasn’t exactly comforting, and sam didn’t love the information he did get, but there are still swaths of time unaccounted for. periods where geralt suffered, where geralt had to choose to talk.

there is a part of sam that wonders if that is what this is all about. that if geralt actually does want to talk about what happened, or if there’s something else.

he catches something - whether it’s about geralt’s movement or breathing or just sam wanting to know and not quite being able to hold it back. he doesn’t intentionally avoid the i should ask you the same, but his smile does shift to something more concerned. ]

And the knee?

[ Sam's remark brings a curve to his lips. So she does. He makes a thoughtful sound. ]

She called it Christmas. Looks like Yule to me.

[ He imagines it's along the same lines. Winter solstice and all. Her concept of it is just significantly more colourful.

He's not aware Sam spoke to Julie, though he does know Julie spoke to Jaskier and Ciri both—and by proxy, he thinks Sam must have caught on a little to what happened one way or another. The man's always been too perceptive for his own good. Geralt can't say he exactly minds. Maybe some part of him is hoping Sam will piece it together on his own and Geralt can get away with never talking about it. It's difficult to explain, the feeling—like he wants Sam to know, but wants it to go unspoken at the same time. Makes no fucking sense, does it?

He says nothing about Sam dodging the question. He shrugs a shoulder instead. Jaskier's magic did a lot for his knee. ] Nearly healed. [ There's the smallest hesitation before he adds, ] I don't recall what happened to it.

[ He'd told Jaskier he'd strained it and that's likely true to a degree. He just can't remember when or how or if he struck it somehow. He knows exactly why there are holes in his memories, but it bothers him all the same. ]

[ A chill comes over Amos when Geralt mentions the dungeons, albeit abstractly. He can connect the dots well enough, combine them with his current appearance. That fucking hellhole. He'd never been hurt there, somehow. Not physically. So, seeing what they apparently do to their prisoners now. It's not great.

He expels the feeling, and it's like it was never there. ]

Yeah. Guy was kinda freaking out. Seemed like the thing to do. [ He cocks his head. ] Said he was your best friend. I believed him because in my experience, nobody gets that worried over somebody they aren't close to. How's he doing?

[ Not like it occurred to Amos to inquire about Jaskier's wellbeing, but now that he's been brought up... shit, maybe he should've. Better late than never. Right? ]

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

open.

sam.

amos.

yennefer.

estinien.

Someone said blacksmiths

1 because we've put it off long enough

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