abraxaslogs | [ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again

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[ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again

Who: Jaskier, Ciri, Geralt, Yennefer, Alucard, and some open prompts
When: Mid-to-Late January
Where: Cadens and the Horizon
What: Jaskier wakes from a vivid, nasty dream to physical evidence that it was unfortunately very real. He spirals, but like, only a little bit. It mostly involves getting drunk and buying hats to cope.
Warnings: Mentions of bodily injury/torture, maybe PTSD, heavy drinking

[Will be throwing starters (including open ones) down below! You can hit me up at

scathefire or #scathefire6612 if you'd like to plot anything or want an additional starter. Also, let me know if you'd like me to avoid S2 spoilers, because there will be a lot.]

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[He has nowhere to go.

All right, that's not entirely fair. He has a home. With many wonderful people in it. People he should, predictably, be reaching out to, because that would absolutely make sense, wouldn't it? One leans on their friends in hard times, as he has had to even remind certain friends of his.

But how is he going to explain this? Geralt has already sent a message back. In one piece. Whatever the fuck that means. Of course Jaskier should've been far more precise in his question, and he wants to -- he wants to forget that, whatever that was, because dreams are frivolous, wanting things. Dreams are impossibilities. Dreams do not weave a year of time into a single night.

Dreams don't have you waking up with the warmth of fire on your fingertips. Dreams do not steal the embedded swirls of texture on your skin. And yet here he stands, with the bustling market of Cadens moving around him, and only a day has passed -- he checked with a passing shopper, if only to calm his frantic thoughts -- and he rubs the fingers of his right hand together, where scars now spread over their tips. They were not there yesterday. Not even ten or so hours ago.

Jaskier heaves a sigh as the purveyor in front of him grunts with annoyance. Are you going to buy anything, or just keep staring? Look, you even got coin, lad? Lad. Gods, he's being called a lad.]

I'm thinking. Mulling. Considering. Cogitating. Perhaps you've heard of it? [The hats on display in front of him have not moved nor changed in the long minutes he's been mulling. Hats are easy. Hats change a man, but often only in good ways.

Hats help a man process things. He ruminates further, sourly pondering whether he should ask for advice. My good man, what do you suggest for after you've held a human head in your hands? Have you ever seen someone get their face taken off by big, fangy teeth? What the color is of what is left behind? Do you think you have a hat to make me not remember the sight?

He scratches at the stubble on his chin.] Does this one come in black?

[Alucard's starting to near completion with restoring all of the gravestones in his little adopted plot of the land of the dead.

Alucard is starting to procrastinate in completing the restoration. When it's over, it's over. He'll be without work to keep his hands busy and his head occupied. Then what? He's yet to make progress on building his crypt properly (there's no money in working for that). He could try and help the other places of the dead with their work, but then he wouldn't be alone.

So Alucard is building more excuses into his daily routine. Trying to force himself to learn the ebbs and flows of what areas of the city as less crowed and when, because he may have to at some point. Anything so he can keep working.

--Jaskier?

Jaskier's a good way to avoid working. Something in the dhampir also suspects shopping with the man is a several hour affair. He could be wrong, but--]

Hats?

[Alucard approaches from the right, although true to his nature he moves quietly. His eyes go from Jaskier to the hat in question, then back to the bard.]

[In one piece is all the answer Geralt gave him in response to his hurried, scrawled question, and it's not enough, but Jaskier has to accept it is enough. He only gives back a right, thanks and proceeds to do exactly the opposite of what he said he would do.

He does not forget about the dream... the nightmare. Because he cannot.

Not when there is evidence of it. The same fingers. And later, in the bath, these small notches of scarred skin across his body. The ache of bruises that no longer color him. The very real, remembered taste of blood in his mouth. Cut gums, sliced tongue. A single snap in the dark.

There are plenty of healthy ways to deal with this. However, they are expensive, and drink is cheap when you're a bard with a reputation. After a night spend schmoozing with pretty barmaids and one particular hulk of a -- er, he said he was a barber, right? -- Jaskier has managed to spend only a little of his own coin on wine, which still sloshes a bit in the bottle he's snatched on his way out of the tavern. His boots trudge through Cadens's familiar streets. Not a single thing has changed. Not a single, solitary, fucking thing, except three fingertips and --

And the entire fucking Continent?

He sings under his breath as he stumbles home, something that sounds like What for do you yeaaarn? over and over, and honestly, what a good fucking song. At least he can take that with him.

He's still got it.

He trips on a rock, or perhaps nothing at all, and the wine bottle falls from his hands and spills into the dirt. Jaskier stares at it, swaying a little, only a few bare moments from walking into his own home.] You fucker. You absolute fucker. We had -- we had maybe, like, a minute to go, and you've gone and fucked it all up. Well, if you think I'm above sucking you out of the ground like a fly on a rotting orange, you've another thing coming.

Edited 2022-01-17 23:14 (UTC)

[Jaskier wakes with the very intense urge to vomit.

It's only luck that has Geralt out of Cadens on another hunt. Only luck that leaves him alone in the bed they sometimes share. He stumbles out of it, caught on a sheet, his heart beating so loudly in his ears it's all he can hear. (The crashing of tables, the howl of cutting wind. An old woman's voice creaking as trees do in a storm.)

It isn't real. It's dreams. You've had dreams for years, you absolute --

He looks down to where his hand grips his knee, nails digging in. His right hand. (The sound of burning flesh, the stink of it. Nothing compares to it. Nothing reeks quite like it.) It isn't real. He can hear his mother's voice, gentle and reprimanding. Dreams cannot hurt you.

He turns his right hand over.

The fingertips bubble out unnaturally, the pads of the tips pale caps of scar tissue. Shall we try a different technique?

He rushes to their washroom just in time to purge last night's lovely little dinner.

Jaskier does it before he's ever really considered not, once he's washed his face and gargled several glasses of water. He reaches for Ciri. He -- he simply needs confirmation. None of this is real. He's a wonderful imagination. So much so that even a nightmare can be a haunting, real thing.

She can't -- she can't remember these things, too. Can she? For fuck's sake, Jaskier can barely parse this out himself. What this is. What he is -- who he's become.

The message scrawls itself out shakily, but at least he still manages the lovely curves in his letters.

Ah, hello Ciri. Only a quick question. I was -- hah, I was reading this book, you know, of curses and things, for a bit of inspiration. Nothing too interesting, but I had a question, of no real import, and -- anyway, have you ever been possessed? Merely curious.

Ah, yes. There is no way this will lead to further questions. Only a writer searching up some inspiration. The medieval equivalent of an unerased Google search.]

[Alucard isn't wrong. He's already been here an hour, or an hour-ish, and even if it's a bit early, time is a meaningless concept and he's already gone through about half a bottle of wine. At some point. A very lucky thing that had so much at home already. Wine and shopping. What better way to deal with the very state of one's world and mental capacities?

He flinches as he hears his own name, drawn out of his reverie. He blinks, several times, staring at Alucard. Obviously he knows quite well who this man is, remembers clearly every moment they've spent together. But there, then, he had never thought of this place. Never recalled an Abraxas. And especially did not think, ah, if only my dhamphir friend was here, this man would be just a big meaty blob in the middle of a swarm of bats.

Do bats eat people like that? It doesn't matter.]

Oh. Oh, yes. Hats. [If Alucard peers long enough at his face, there is a sense of lingering alarm that is not shaking off as it should. For fuck's sake. He'd barely grasped the missing year between he and Geralt when they first arrived here.

Well, whoopty-fucking-do. He's found his missing year, and it sucks. The moment of silence passes so long that Jaskier can even feel the discomfort coming from the hat's crafter. He looks between the offering, and Alucard, and picks it up. It's only then, as his fingers slide along its leather edge, he realizes he can only barely feel it. On those fingers.] What's wrong with it? I can pull off black. And hats.

Edited 2022-01-17 23:29 (UTC)

I'm not sure of the styling on the brim. It seems...[Impractical is not a word that Alucard suspects works on Jaskier.] At the wrong angle, it could be unflattering.

[Nailed it.

But Alucard isn't an idiot. He catches that little undercurrent of alarm. That's new, and on Jaskier's face, it does not feel correct. The bard is many things, but inclined towards actual alarm? That is Alucard's job and nature of his depression, thank you very much.

Far be it from him to be territorial and unproductive though. Alucard's eyes move off of Jaskier and beyond, considering some of the other hats. There's more than enough options, but--

--ah. Similar style. Full brim, and likely to be good in the actual desert as well if such a journey happens. He points.]

Compare it against that one.

[Where he may have cried out at the very idea of anyone ever thinking his fashion is unflattering, Jaskier only huffs out a breath nearly in silence now.] I have never looked unflattering in my life.

[Well. Debatable.

There is something to be said that Alucard can be depended upon to stick to the topic at large, when it suits. It suits now. Hats are absolutely unrelated to everything else on his mind, and the dhampir has approached him as usual. No time has passed. Er. As far as he can tell. Rather hard to know when everyone around you fails to fucking age, isn't it?

He either saw him last a handful of days ago, or a year ago, and the difference is essentially meaningless.

Jaskier indicates the one Alucard's pointed out, taking it from the man to compare them. Honestly, if you ask him, they're both hats. Maybe he is not in the best place to pick out a hat, however.

He places the one Alucard's chosen on his head, angling it.] There. Appropriately flattering, I hope?

All the more reason to keep it that way.

[Alucard considers. Moves his head one way, then the other, then walks a three quarters circle so he stands on Jaskier's other side.]

Far better, I think. [But moreover, and to the point:] Is it for stage for every day?

[He probably should have asked that first. He also, somewhere in all of this, has just realized that he's yet to actually attend one of Jaskier's performances. Maybe that was not the smartest question to ask, but here they are.

Still. Something is off. That reaction was not as forceful as the dhampir expected.]

[Jaskier's really going through it. No one can tell, of course, because he's very good at pretending everything is all right, even when frequently sticking to the back corners of taverns to drink, even when he's failed to bring a razor to his face for a few too many days, when he's taken to staring at his fingers propped up on the table in front of him between a half-consumed pint of mead with watery blue eyes.

He has a new hat, though. So that's a plus.

Jaskier is still rather easy to approach in a low-lit tavern, with an unlit candle melted into his table half-slumped in his seat. Between large gulps of wine or ale or mead (they all sort of blend together after enough time), one might even catch him stumbling onto the stage with a shitty lute that he hates to belt out a still near-perfect rendition of a rather bitter song that still hits. Though perhaps the feelings that prompted its writing do not linger as much as they had once, it's the perfect meeting of energy and bitterness that... you know, it feels particularly good right now.]

[It's not entirely conscious that this change has come about. When Jaskier is tired of being drunk and awake -- both things that have already become quite a chore -- he decides that, yes, being elsewhere, where dreams and memories and thoughts cannot quite attack him as terribly is in order.

Unfortunately, his... his whatever, his psyche perhaps, has decided otherwise. He walks into a vineyard with his grapevines turned brown and crisp under a sun that has grown too harsh. His horses are gone. The ones that pulled his caravan across the entire Horizon. In the distance, he sees two pairs of red eyes watching him. Ah. Radu and Dănești. At least someone still finds his domain suits.

Jaskier sighs. The vineyard vanishes between one breath and the next, and all that is left is. Nothing.

What does he want? He's not even sure anymore. It sort of builds itself, crafted from the memories he came here to get farther from. The Horizon seems to know what it wants to be. What a man looks for when he thinks of home.

Not necessarily always a place of safety. But a place of meaning, of work. Of change.

He almost laughs at the name. Yes. Yes, that is what he'd name it. And as the domain works out itself, as it decides (and he decides) what it must be now, he is relieved to see that those gifts he held so dear are still here. They find their own rightful place, safe. And then the creatures. Alucard's two horses approach him as the night takes on a twilight darkness, snuffling into his hands and nipping at his fingertips. With a shrieking cry, the goldfinch rests on top of the tavern, nesting itself in the crooks of the roof.

Jaskier opens the door, stepping inside to a warmly lit tavern. No one else is here, but the sounds of low murmuring, laughing, of clinking glasses reverberates. And there, on the counter, is Moglad. Jaskier closes his arms tightly around his apprentice.]

My boy. What it means to see you again.

[Moglad looks as bright as ever as he takes a bow. I promised by my pom I would stay! ]

And so you have.

[With time, Jaskier settles into this new, heavier domain. The sky always seems a bit darker than usual, but he attributes it to wanting his horses time to roam more than anything. The streets build themselves, cobblestone by cobblestone, but they remain rather clean of debris, of rats. It has that smell, though. Guaranteed Oxenfurt smell. Fish and salt water and horses. Lovely.

By the time anyone stumbles into it, Jaskier has taken to laying across the bar, occasionally a table, with a glass of liquor beside him. Moglad flutters around as if looking for something to do, unsure of himself. And gradually, the tavern fills with the shadows of bodies. Of company. Of an audience, an adoring one, if only he had the energy to sing.]

Edited 2022-01-18 00:26 (UTC)

[Hector maybe takes a few days to notice Jaskier's downward spiral. He keeps himself busy, and he's pulled enough all-nighters that he doesn't judge another man for a day or two of missed shaves.

Maybe he's a terrible boyfriend, but he's still pretty new at all this. About caring about people.

Anyways, watching Jaskier perform is something he's started carving out room in his schedule for, and on this particular evening, he's put down his research on Thornean mind-magic and come here to clear his mind.

He waits until the song is done before he seeks out the bard.]

That's a new one. Is there someone I need to be worried about?

[In the wake of Susan's vanishing, Nadine has - mostly - been keeping to herself. A slow slide that started months ago suddenly picked up speed, and she's found herself in a malaise she can't easily shake herself from or hide. It's not something she's talked about - Lloyd, sweet as he is, isn't the best for feelings talk, and Julie's still giving the cold shoulder. It doesn't really matter, it's not like anyone wants to listen to her whining anyway. Shit happens. It sucks, you deal with it, you move on.

But it's difficult to move on without distraction, and sorting ingredients, mixing potions and tonics and elixirs, it only works for so long. She needs something to banish the constant swirl of dark thoughts, at least for a little while.

Which is why she's settled into bed early for a visit to the Horizon. There might be distraction there, real distraction. Jaskier's wandered into her domain on more than one occasion, it's high time she returned the favor. From past experience, he serves as a very good distraction. He does seem to genuinely like her, so it isn't even as though she's using him, really.

She reaches what she thinks must be his domain...but what greets her isn't what she's expecting. He'd talked of vineyards and beautiful scenery and this...well, this looks - and smells - like Nott, honestly. The scent of fish, the cobbles, the tavern... Is this the wrong place?

Frowning slightly, she approaches the tavern. There's light inside, and it sounds occupied. She pulls down the black hood of her coat and pushes the door open, cautious, the mystery of this domain already taking priority in her mind.]

...Jaskier?

[Apparently this is the right place, there he is. But something still seems wrong - moreso, at the sight of him. Is he drunk?]

[Yeah. He's drunk.

Truthfully, when he first laid down, he wasn't thinking of company. Who would come here outside of the elves that must? But the elves are not here. And neither is he. He left. Left the name of the Sandpiper behind; left the one place he had offered anything to anyone. He --

He hears a voice, lifting up on his elbows.] Oh. Oh, fuck --

[The door opens to Jaskier nearly falling off the counter as he tries to sit up, wine coating his throat. He swings his legs down, Moglad holding the back of his dark red coat (he paid a shitload for it, and he'll have it here again, thank you) with his wings flapping as hard as they can so Jaskier doesn't fall flat on his face. He steadies himself, clearing his throat.] Nadine. [He chokes on the word.] Nadine, hello. Er -- how are you?

[It feels so distant, since last he saw her, he forgets what he promised was a lovely view of Toussaint, his vineyard in the hills... not a smoky tavern on the edge of Oxenfurt.]

[ He's so tired of his head getting fucked with. Old memories surfacing; new ones overflowing. They seep into every crevice, and part of him instinctively wants to reject the intrusion. It's not real.

He knows better.

Once he is certain Ciri will remain in the city for now, while he figures this out, he retreats to where it's most quiet. Closes his eyes; tries to think. To sort through every thread so he can decide where he needs to start first. He's already spoken to Ciri. It might be worthwhile to ask if Sam's heard of this happening or anything similar. There's—

Yennefer. Across the world. He will take care of that, too, but not now. Ciri will be safe here, in another city. That'll give him time to consider what he wants to do. It's not a decision he wants to make in haste.

That leaves Jaskier. Jaskier, he does need to speak to sooner rather than later. He knows Jaskier experienced what he did—Ciri confirmed as much—and that means...

He waits for Jaskier outside their home. Can hear him coming a mile away, the bottle that tumbles to the ground. Geralt sighs. So about what he's expected then. Can't blame the man, but. Fuck. So much for rest and restoration.

He picks up the bottle and reaches a hand out to steady his friend. ] No one's sucking anything. Come inside.

[It's a fair question. One he feels like most wouldn't think of, really. Stage. Right. He should really... he should really do something, shouldn't he? But gods. Gods. He was miserable, but he had it again. The name. The fame. Everyone knew him again, and --

It hadn't made anything better. Somehow, none of it had mattered to him, really. In the end, it did nothing to change the Continent. Sodden had still fallen. Nilfgaard had moved north.

He hasn't put this much thought into the hat. He only wanted a hat to fill the time.] Everyday, I think. No stages. Not yet. Need a new lute.

[Ah. Wait. He still has one here. A shitty one, from Thorne. Nothing close to the beautiful creature that was his lute. Elven quality, polished wood, and strings that hardly broke. Smashed, stepped on, and left for dead.] I need a bigger feather. Something flashy. Perhaps yellow. Or red? Don't suppose you know any fancy birds, do you, Alucard?

[Something is very much wrong.

Nadine may not know Jaskier as well as she knows some, but she's spent time with him. Most of it more than just casual. She's been with him when he's been drinking and whatever else he'd done at the party, and she's drank with him. Neither time had been anything like this.

This is the drinking of a man trying to drown something. Possibly himself. A sick sort of worry comes up in her. What's happened?]

I think the more important question is how are you? Is this...a bad time?

[Not that she intends to just leave him like this, drunk and alone with only his winged cat-bear to look after him. She's not so far the depths of her own misery to just abandon him in what very much looks like a time of need.

...His hair looks different, too.]

Then the non-asymmetrical brim. It can be repurposed if it strikes you.

[Feathers? Alucard can't hide the side-eye he offers the bard. Subtle was never a skill he had, and the question feels like a particular swerve off the regular path.

But he can answer the question all the same.] I recall that male peafowl have long tailfeathers that look like a coat unto themselves. Green, with spots at the end that look like eyes. [Probably extra enough.]

Goro has taken to spending his time in the Horizon not enjoying the comforts of his own domain, but since his own plans are advancing thanks to a rather fruitful discussion with the Prime Minister, taking stock of the others who share that space. As his discussion with the Thornean sorcerer Strange demonstrated, exploring other domains can be useful in determining the character of his flow Summoned. Goro is not popular with them. He knows this and does not care, so it pays to find out more about those who will, sooner or later want to "deal with him" as Estinien so aptly put it.

The door to the tavern does not bar him, and so Goro steps in, floorboards creaking under his weight. His attention is immediately attracted to the bar, and so completely misses Jaskier sprawled out on a table near the back.

Well, might as well avail himself of whatever spirits are available. Some of them might even be worthwhile. In the Horizon, who knows?

He strides across the tavern floor, stepping behind the bar to examine the liqours available. A massive hand takes one, uncorks it and Goro knocks it back.

He's barely managed a taste before he withdraws the bottle, and let's it drop to the floor with a crash. "Nnnh. Weak." The owner can surely summon up more later. It's no bother.

Maybe the next bottle.

[See, he likes to think he's done a rather good job of -- er, not hiding it, exactly, but making himself scarce. Unfortunately, doing so is only making more of a mark that something is clearly. Different.

Perhaps playing Burn is not... the most subtle thing he could've done. But gods, the energy of it. He needs that.

What he does not need is Hector -- fucking, how could he forget Hector? -- startling him, because he is not used to it. For so long, no one sought him out. Not as Jaskier.

He holds a hand over his heart, smoothing down his ruffled chemise.] Ah, Hector! It's -- no, no, of course not. [Oh, fuck. That sounds suspicious. And it's so far from the real problem.] It's... nothing. Just a spot of heartbreak in the past I was. Mulling over. [Without a pause, and perhaps with a hint of wine to his breath, he takes Hector by the shoulders. Oh. Lovely and real. Still very well muscled under those clothes.] It feels like ages since I've seen you.

[His words are quiet. Like a year and then some, and yet -- no time has really passed, has it?]

[Jaskier is somewhere between figuring out how to kneel down and get the bottle without falling over and perhaps estimating how much is actually drinkable when a hand jerks out and take the bottle from him. Even if he had not quite reached for it yet.]

I don't need --

[It comes second later. This curl of unease, a shiver down his back. He is slow as he lifts his eyes, meeting his.]

Geralt. [His voice immediately goes quiet, the wind knocked out of him. Even drink cannot hide the squeeze inside his chest, the pain in it. The recall he has of the moment where he watched his friend disappear, and thought, They aren't coming back.

He swallows, wavering.] You're back from your hunt.

[Sometimes he wishes people were dumber. Less perceptive. Fuck, it may even be easier to be around those who care so little they don't ask.

Ugh. And then he'd complain about being underappreciated, anyway.]

Bad time? [He chortles, legs swinging from where he sits on the bartop, without any real mirth in the sound. Oh, a bad time. He cannot, in fact, be sure whether it gets any badder.]

I'm very much alive, as you can see, and in the prime of my life. [He leans back on his hands, and Moglad finally lets go, sure he (probably) won't fall now. The moogle's pom hangs low as he flutters to a shelf to sit on, noticeably far more quiet than before.] How can I help you, my dear? I didn't know you'd be coming by.

Yeah, I came by to see if you wanted to...hang out. But you're drunk as a skunk and almost fell on your face sitting up.

[In truth she'd come to see if he wanted to fool around, but he's clearly not in any shape for that. Or likely interested.

She comes closer, looking at him carefully, concern clear on her face.]

Is everybody okay?

[Nadine isn't one to pry, but if something's happened...and she can't think of anything else to push Jaskier to this level of solitary drinking. Maybe her own situation is lending a bias, but it's where her mind immediately goes.]

[ His brows are drawn together. He knows that look. He knows it because—

He remembers it now. Even if he has been here the whole time, has not set foot in an Oxenfurt jail cell in these past six, seven months. He remembers. That's what it feels like, that's what throws him off constantly. It isn't a prophecy, it is not...dreams. It's a memory. The difference is important. He's been taught not to mistake planted thoughts, visions, from what's real, and this is not that. He feels it. How the pieces fit and fall into place, without the murky edges that come with a dream or a woven illusion. ]

I rode back as soon as I could. [ He studies Jaskier for a second longer before he opens the door. Steps inside, to find it fortunately empty for once. The two of them alone. ] I spoke to Ciri, too.

[ I felt it, too. The question is, how? Why now? What does it mean that this happened? And have they been the first? Not many have a source to confirm the truth like he does with Ciri. It's possible that in others, they dismissed what they experienced as a nightmare, a trick of magic. ]

Hang out. [His brows rise.] Oh, that's a euphemism if I've ever heard one.

[And he appreciates it. Normally, he would never even think twice of turning her down. She's beautiful, and fun, and he loves seeing her break out of this shell that was crafted around her. To him, there is nothing more important.

And even in this state, the last thing he wants to be is cruel to her.

He sits up a little straighter, or attempts to, rubbing his face.] Here, you mean? Yes. No one else has been kidnapped against their will, luckily. Not to my knowledge. [Usually one's hands would drop away, their cheeks reddened, but for too long he simply holds them over his face, leaning over.]

When your magic man would come to visit you, would he ever leave you dreams? Ones that felt like memories?

[Seeing him is as good as a dagger in his heart. It's funny. He knows Geralt was coming back. That he was still here. He'd answered Jaskier's letter, after all. It is only seeing him now that it -- that so much goes through him, but most of all is this overwhelming sorrow for Geralt. For the bodies of the brothers he has left behind.

He rubs his fingers together, tempted to look down. To find the scars. To remember it had to be real.

Jaskier walks past him, forgetting what remains of his wine, sways as he makes his way, slowly, up the stairs.]

I don't know what you're talking about. There was no reason to rush back here.

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[ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again

for Alucard [closed]

LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOO

for Geralt [closed]

for Ciri [closed]

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OPEN [Cadens]

OPEN [Horizon]

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