[ CLOSED ] through open passageways

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: March
Where: Cadens; Horizon
What: Catch-all for things
Warnings: Adding as we go



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

Comments

thancred + jaskier (feat. moglad)

[gynvael]

[ The number on the stone grey wall reads 18.

This is not entirely Jaskier's fault. It rests in good part upon Geralt's shoulders. He's the one who wanted to walk the Horizon, after the summit, to see what faces and domains may be here, given the newly Summoned that have appeared. He asked Jaskier to come because Jaskier lacks the threatening aura Geralt apparently carries by default and he'd prefer no one use the Horizon's creation magic to skewer him for inadvertently trespassing. But Jaskier was the one who, when they reached this construct, said, What's the worst that could happen?

So here they are. Committed. It's only the Horizon. They can leave any time by absconding the plane altogether. They haven't got to climb these steps. This is an inordinate fucking waste of time and he knows it. There is a stubbornness inside him, though, that wants to know who the fuck put these here and what in the hell lies atop. He's scaled sheer cliffs and climbed mountains. He enjoys it. This is...something else. There isn't a view. There is no fresh air. He does not know where he is climbing to or what he is meant to reach. And he's accompanied by two men who are, in fact, in possession of human endurance. Or what passes as such in the Horizon. Hard to tell what's resulting in those limits: either the sheer monotony of the trek is preventing them from transcending it or the domain itself is doing so.

(How or why Thancred came to join them, he can't say. A similar sort of curiosity, he supposes. Perhaps he was drawn by the presence of a certain moogle.)

Speaking of their third companion: fuzzy; small wings; carrying a wooden sword still. Jaskier insisted before they set out that Moglad required fresh air and Geralt only sighed. He sighs again now, over whatever it is the moogle looks ready to do—something insufferable, no doubt—and grabs the creature out of the air with both hands. ]

Do not even think about it.

[funbreaker]

[ That 18 almost seems to be mocking them, and Thancred has no sense of how many more floors they'll need to ascend to reach the top. Or to reach anything of interest, at this point he would even take that.

He finds himself gripping the bannister so helpfully lining the stairwell before remembering himself and pulling his hand back. While he would say that he is not the person in this group who's struggling the most (that dubious honor belongs to Geralt's best friend), this is a lot of stairs even for him. It's worse even than Eulmore. Yet, much like Geralt, he does have some odd sense of pride that prevents him from giving up halfway through to go back down the way they came. ]

Surely this is some manner of cruel prank on behalf of whoever built this place.

[ The words are mumbled to himself, half under his breath as he tries not to huff and puff. He watches Geralt seize the Moogle to prevent it from enacting any mischief it may have in mind. Surely even its tiny wings are beginning to tire...

Then again, it is a construct of this place as far as he can tell, so perhaps not. ]

Do you expect someone will be waiting to laugh at us when we reach the top?

[ His own domain has some deterrents in place to keep others out if he doesn't want them there, which had been half-constructed before he even had his memories. He needs to spruce the place up a bit more before it will be decent enough for company, but instead he's been distracted by all this. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier has absolutely no blame here. He was merely invited. His question was not wholly rhetorical, and considering Geralt offered no answer to what's the worst that could happen, then clearly nothing too terrible could happen.

Eighteen is not. The worst. He can count to eighteen still using his own digits.

It's really. Not. The worst.]

Oi. [It's more like a release of air than a normal sharp complaint.] Be nice to Moglad. He's... he's doing his best.

[Moglad bops Geralt's head with his sword. Let me go, Master Geralt! I wasn't planning anything, I promise! His little legs wiggle as he attempts to escape Geralt's hold, wings fluttering.

Jaskier has not missed that all of them have shot Moglad a glare at least once, as he continues hovering effortlessly through the air.

He regards their newest companion, and another new torture in Jaskier's life: a handsome white-haired man.] There had better be, for I cannot suffer this another moment if it's anything less than a cosmic joke.

[He stops at the top of 19, bent over the railing as he gasps for breath, sweat beading at his temples. Moglad flutters over and applies a cool rag to his forehead. He doesn't question where in the Horizon he's found it. ♪ The faaaasteeer you gooo, the faaaaster it will be overrr, kupo! ♪

Jaskier's head drops down. Teaching the moogle to sing may have been a mistake.]

[gynvael]

[ Be nice to Moglad. He has been nice to Moglad. How does Jaskier think his miniature bat-winged bear even knows how to lift a sword. He also truly does not have time for Moglad, in this moment.

He releases him with a frown. ]

I'm expecting a breathtaking view. [ There's a pause before he adds, ] It may not be on purpose.

[ If anyone knows the ways the Horizon twists and turns itself, born out of the parts of that one would rather not acknowledge, it's him. He has yet to address. That room. And he's been repairing Kaer Morhen by hand because apparently it decided to shatter as soon as he stepped inside two months ago. When he walked by Nadine's awhile ago, thundering rain poured over her little town and he's certain she didn't choose that, either.

Or it might just be someone's idea of fucking with people. Frankly, not a bad one. It's working.

Jaskier stops at the bottom of the next set of steps. Geralt does not. He gives his friend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he climbs right past. ]

dean.

[gynvael]

[ The sun going dark for inexplicable reasons does not bode well. Bodes poorly. There also isn't a hell of a lot to do about it. It's there; it's happening. Seems not to be raining fire and frost upon the world, which is all they can ask for.

He ventures with some caution closer to the city borders. May as well be near, in case anyone in Cadens actually needs him. On his way back, he takes a merchant's wagon with him in exchange for a bag of silver marks. He does not tell the man he was heading that direction as it was. They may or may not encounter any danger; he barters for the coin, anyway, for the potential threat and for the barking hound that draws attention. Look, he isn't exactly taking advantage, but folk will always pay upfront, with fewer attempts to negotiate, in a time of need. The merchant is hardly wanting for money, judging by his wares and dress.

He delivers them safely at the gates with only a few sand scorpions in the way. It's for this reason he's middle of the darkened streets, lit only with a few torches and candles, with a couple of dead scorpions tied by their tails and slung over his shoulder. They're intact. He can sell the parts.

Despite the cover of night, Cadens bustles as always. In the midst of the crowd, he catches sight of a familiar figure—in part from the ring that shines like a beacon, something only the Summoned possess. Normally, he wouldn't bother stopping, but something about Dean's demeanour or where he's found, perhaps a strange noise even—whichever it is, Geralt peers with some curiosity around the corner. ]

[righteously]

( Man is he glad he got this freakin' ring. He could take or leave the tote bag, but the magic flashlight is exactly what he'd been mentally begging for throughout that entire last spelunking trip with Geralt. Might've actually saved his life today, as it turns out — easy enough to guess, probably, once Geralt gets close enough to give him a once-over.

He's fine now, but there's evidence of a less than smooth hunt lingering behind. Torn shirt, nice big freshly bandaged gash underneath it he's patched up himself. The fabric hangs open just enough to show off most of his tattoo, and then the white patch beneath it carrying just the faintest sliver of bleed-through. Barely noticeable, but Geralt can probably smell it. A few scraped knuckles, a bruised cheek. Pretty basic stuff, pleasantly illuminated by the ring on his finger that he's using to "accidentally" blind the guy at the market stall counting coins at him. )

Yep. Yeah. That's right. Keep 'em coming. There we go. Throw in the bottle, too.

( The merchant looks less than enthusiastic about the order, but does eventually fork over a pricey-looking bottle of something alcoholic. Dean raises it in a little salute, says something along the lines of it's been a business doing pleasure with you, and yoinks the cork out of the thing with a squeaky pop. He ambles all of about two steps away before he lifts the bottle up, chugging down a few hearty swallows like the thirstiest bitch in the desert. Following that, a nice long exhale, eyes closed, exhausted.

Today sucked balls, thanks for asking. )

[gynvael]

[ The blood certainly catches his attention above all else, if only because he smells it before he sees it. Since their brief encounter at the summit (a mutual shimmering as it were) Geralt hasn't spoken to Dean. Roaming the open desert lends poorly to frequent run-ins, between the two of them. But it doesn't mean he isn't glad to see Dean...not alive and well, but alive.

He rather thought he'd be the one who looked like shit—blood staining his hands, dust and grime settled in his hair—but Dean has him outdone. Those look like claw marks. Maybe talons. The desert offers no shortage of things to kill, and things to tear you open at a moment's notice.

There's no announcement as Geralt falls into step beside the other man. He simply appears out of the dark, not deliberately sneaking but quiet as he tends to be. ]

Enjoying your walk in the sun?

[righteously]

( You know what Dean's favorite thing in the world is? Sneaky ass cat-like sons of bitches popping up out of nowhere when he's not expecting it. It's just. It's the best. It's great.

He startles like a 'Nam vet bulldozing a bubble wrap factory on the fourth of July. Good thing he'd only just brought the bottle back up to his lips — it turns a potential drowning into more of a mild spew-ing, and he shoots a baleful look Geralt's direction over the sleeve of the shirt he scrubs across his mouth. )

Would you wear a bell or something, man? One of these days you're gonna get yourself Swayze'd into another freakin' dimension.

( All things considered, it's relatively mild bitching — all ire undercut by the way he holds the bottle out in offering. Take that as a testament to their relatively good standing, look at that, friendship is offering to share your booze in the same breath as the one you're using to complain about the person you're offering it to. Whether Gerealt takes it or not, Dean gets distracted for just a fleeting second by shooting an appraising look at the scorpions hanging over Geralt's shoulders, lips tugging down in displeasure. Glad those weren't what he had to deal with today, those are a couple of long tailed nopes he'd rather not tangle with by ring light, thank you very much. )

peter.

[gynvael]

lmk if this works! c:

[piqure]

[ while cadens arguably boasts the closest parallels to whatever busy, fantasy-new york this world had to offer, it didn't quite meet the mark and one thing was made very apparent in a very short amount of time since his re-arrival here: peter parker had a remarkable inability to sit still.

between trying to learn magic with doctor strange, between trying to figure out what passed for their idea of technological advancements, between the outrunning of grief, there was the lure of potential, of the unexplored. of charting something out in the hopes of it being useful one day soon.

and hey, how else are you going to get to know the place you were inadvertently dumped into, if not by exploring it for all it was worth? and so, finding himself both curious and simultaneously appropriately distracted, peter kept on walking.

which is how he found himself in the outskirts of the city and in its desert, mostly unprepared save for a pack with some water and an apple and an absence of his suit that he still found was a little like missing a limb.

truthfully, probably not the smartest decision he’s made overall, given that he didn’t have a weapon should there be something like a dragon near by (did this world even have dragons? it has mostly sounded like an appropriate assumption given the context…)

but he’s climbed a smooth-faced red rock, jutting from sandy earth and reminding him a little of utah and only met a small little lizard basking in the sun.

you could always see more things up high, though the sun proved a bit more unforgiving.

he feels someone’s footsteps more than he hears them first, hairs standing on end and head moving towards the approaching sound and there’s one (1) boyish face quickly looking from the top of the tall rock down at — ] Oh! [ another person! ] Hello?

[ there’s a short beat, as he takes the figure in, and there’s a spark of familiarity in the widening of his eyes. ] Geralt, right? Hi!

this is perfect!

[gynvael]

[ Deep in the desert, Geralt encounters almost no one, except the rare soldier stationed around. Not many venture that far. Closer to the edges of the city, he's grown used to seeing familiar faces now and again.

He happens to be making his way up the opposite side. He can hear someone's heartbeat at the top. Unusual, solely because it's a sheer cliff and not many could make the climb. It isn't Ciri; he'd know if she were hunting the same grounds but he's fairly certain she's gone towards Aquila. He grasps the top of the ledge and peers up. A fresh-faced boy stares back down.

Geralt hangs there for a second. Peter's presence is so unexpected—so out of place—that it takes him a moment to catch up.

He hauls himself onto the rocky surface. He isn't carrying much aside from his sword. The rest is on his horse, at the bottom. He looks Peter up and down—curious more than anything. ] The fuck are you doing here?

[piqure]

[ a leg tucked under him and peter pushes himself away from the edge to give geralt more space to pull himself up. there's a half-second consideration of offering a hand, prompted by geralt's pause, but then he's moving again and it becomes a moot point. ] Okay, yep —

[ for all its worth, peter feels nearly as much out of place as he probably looks, on top of a sheer-faced rock formation, ill prepared as he is. there's another quick glance down, as if only noticing the height (and horse) now.

all he really can offer geralt is a sheepish shrug and a small little smile. ] Well — um, I'm exploring? [ losing track of time? making bad decisions? ]

I haven't really been out here much, so I figured I'd take a look. [ his eyes, inevitably, land on the sword, short time wasted on asking questions. ] Is there - ah - do you need that a lot, here?

[ he may've heard about some monster or the next, but he's yet to run across one, small little lizard atop a rock aside. ]

rinwell.

[gynvael]

[ Some time after the Black Sun—or the Eye, as they call it—they find their place. It's within Cadens proper, of course; he's little desire to isolate them, given how important the people they've found here are to Jaskier and Ciri and Rinwell. (Him, too.) But there's a stable attached not too far, closer than the walk across the city before. A small upper room with a bed and a triangular window that overlooks the streets below.

It feels strange. Settling in, as some might say. Geralt considers it rebuilding. Reforming. He started anew once, long ago. As a child, abandoned to a world and a life he didn't ask for nor understand. He can start anew here, too. At least this time, he has those he cares for alongside him. Not all of them—he knows what he's left behind—but he isn't alone. That's what matters.

He wants to make sure Rinwell is not alone, either. It's stuck with him since that night, when she had told him she was alone. She has her feathery friend now, Jaskier's new pet on top of that. For the times when he and Ciri are not home, he hopes that will be company enough.

Upstairs is where he makes his way now. They've agreed Rinwell can take the space up here. Roomy enough for one girl. Geralt once again does not technically have a bed in this new home, but it doesn't matter. He can either share Jaskier's or take the floor, as he always has.

He's carrying a crate containing something or other that belongs to her—books or supplies—and he peers into her room with it under his arm. ] Rinwell?

[rinwell]

[ It had been one thing to share when traveling on the road, or even sharing a room with Ciri - such had been the way of things in Cyslodia, both before and after losing her family - but a whole entire space to herself? It may not be much to look at right now, but it's an entirely unique experience for the girl.

And she doesn't mind at all that she's at the top of the new house. The view is great.

Peering into her room (her room!) will find Rinwell sitting on her bed — her! bed! — as she watches Hootle flutter back and forth from the rafter beams over her head. The little owl can't make up his mind on which one he wants to make his official perch. Both immediately turn to look at Geralt, the man getting a shy but bright smile. ]

Geralt! [she spies the crate and stands immediately] Oh, thank you! I knew I was forgetting something.

[gynvael]

[ Mm. There's the ever-present Hootle. Geralt sets the crate on her desk, which may or may not have been on the wobbly side but he's evened it out with a wooden wedge if so.

Moving was a simple affair. Out of habit, Geralt can fit his belongings in a single bag, and the same goes for Ciri and Jaskier. He's tossed said bag in the corner downstairs alongside his sword, and that's effectively his unpacking completed. ]

Cozy. [ He offers her a small smile in return. It's good. To see her cheered. They could all use a bit of...something nice to look forward to. ] Need a hand?

[ He's in the city for the remainder of the month, which means he's got time on his hands. Time that he's frankly looking to fill. There's a lot on his mind he'd rather not dwell on. ]

[rinwell]

[ There's a happy fuuufuuu! for Geralt from the tiny owl, who carefully hops down and glides to perch on the delivered crate. The desk doesn't wobble on his landing; he's not heavy enough to make much of a difference.

Having few belongings was something of a godssend that way - Rinwell had always kept a few things close back home, the few trinkets she'd been able to scavenge and keep from her family, and then the equipment she'd gained alongside her allies. But here, she'd started over with even less than that, so filling a bag with her belongings had been almost depressingly easy.

Crates of books and papers notwithstanding. ]

I really like it. [the room, of course, and her hands are clasped before her eagerly.] I've never had so much space for things that only belong to me... You're all sure that's okay, right?

[ Surely they'd need the space for their own things; the old apartment had certainly gotten tight with so many bodies, after all. As for his question, there's a hum. ]

I was thinking of adding some shelving along one of the walls? Do you think that would be possible?

[ It'd be easier than trying to get a bookcase up the stairs, that's for sure. ]

jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ A flower stall is not what he expected from the bard, and yet it suits him perfectly. Geralt's listened to Jaskier speak of it since the Summit; it's the first time in awhile Jaskier has sounded so animated about his plans, and frankly that's more than enough for Geralt to go along.

He shows up carrying boxes, a variety of flowers and herbs. Whatever else Jaskier has asked of him. Is it possible he's seeking a distraction? Entirely. (He does not want to think about her walking away or what it means or what he will say to her when he finds her again.) It doesn't matter. He's assisting all the same, when he isn't out hunting. Jaskier could ask him to go gather water from a stream on the moon and at this point, he'd do it without question. He just. Needs something to occupy himself. Flowers are simple. Sorting them is a mindless task; he's good at stripping thorns off of roses.

This time, when he arrives, there's—a new face. Furry, impossibly round, making soft little noises as it buries its beak in a bowl. He pauses. Sets down the wooden crate he's hauled from across the city. ]

New friend?

[cointosser]

[Jaskier would have to be blind, without ears, and possiblyt without a brain in his skull to go without realizing exactly what Geralt is attempting to do. The Witcher is a white knight, of course, but while one could never call him exactly eager to help with menial tasks (Jaskier ignores his complaining), Jaskier always manages to cajole him into helping in the end.

This time came with very minimal complaint. Actually, he can't recall hearing a real complaint as he turns into a ship captain and throws Geralt order after order, intent on his stand being nothing less than perfect.

It's getting there. Progressively. He's perfected the curl of ivy wrapped around the stand's tiny bit of awning (a good salesman knows to attract eyes by giving the people a bit of time out of the sun), only to find that Mog has eaten leaves off of it when he wasn't looking.

He doesn't have the heart in him to discipline him. Yet. But Jaskier does glare at the beast. Instead of leaves, Jaskier gives him a bowl of chicken cutlets to distract from any further destruction, and it's while Jaskier is fixing those torn leaves that Geralt's voice returns, one of the final batches of sprouts in a crate with him.] Friend? You might call him a disturbance at this point! [Except when Jaskier turns and lifts the gryphon into his arms -- who wiggles his back legs and gives a very impolite chirp -- there's a great smile across the bard's face.]

His name is Mog. Isn't he perfect?

[Jaskier does not add that Mog is also the reason the new living spaces may be pushed back a month.]

[gynvael]

[ A gryphon. A small one, but it's nonetheless a gryphon. Geralt tilts his head. He's been assured, last time he spotted several being hauled across the desert in a merchant's cart, that they do not grow any larger and are essentially domesticated. As far as he can tell, this is true. No one's yet to be attacked by any stray miniature gryphons; it's also much rounder and with a blunter beak than its full-sized brethren.

Its large eyes lay on him and it coos. He looks between it and Jaskier. ]

We haven't room for him, is what he is. [ He huffs, but his protests are perfunctory at most. He pries open the top of the crate. Mog. Of course. How are they to fit Mog when they're already wanting for space?

Which. He's eyeing the middle of the month, to get them some place less cramped. He's asked Sam to work his charm. Geralt is not beyond using the man where saving a few silvers is concerned.

Despite himself, Geralt reaches out to pat the gryphon on the head. It looks like trouble. He will be fighting this thing out of his fucking hair, he knows it. ] If you chew my leathers, you're going on the street.

yennefer.

[gynvael]

[ When Geralt last came to search for Yennefer in the Horizon, he was uncertain, worried, a need to hear from her buried beneath the hurt. He wanted to believe perhaps things could be different, here.

He does not need to hear from her this time. There is nothing to talk about. He doesn't want to ask her why; he doesn't want to hear her justifications or her defensiveness. If she had a good reason, she'd have told him then and there that night they met at the summit. She had not. She simply said nothing, then walked away the next day, as though some part of her was never going to go through with it and she simply chose not to tell him to his face. He is not owed her forthrightness, but that's the thing, isn't it? They don't owe each other anything. That's never been what's between them. He did not give her the pieces of himself because he owes her. He did so because he wanted to. Because she gave him parts of herself in return. It felt worth it, then, that tentative ground they built.

It is not.

He's come to find her now because there is one thing he wants to tell her. Something he hadn't then. It doesn't matter if she will care to hear it or not, if it will make a difference. He simply wants to say it.

A shimmer masks the scorched cabin behind it as he approaches. Sometimes he wonders if he's the only one who can see the glamour. He's not gone inside since. The once was enough. It has told him enough. It also changes nothing. He's never questioned whether she cared for him, whether she has wanted more with him. Whether he is important to her. He knows, from how easily he can wound her. It's that she does care and has made her choices nonetheless. In a way, that stings more than if she never gave a fuck about him in the first place.

The small charm is warm in his palm. He waits, leaning against a tree. Tries not to think about the tent that was once here. Maybe it's fitting that it's vanished. ]

[vixening]

[ the last time yennefer had comes to her own domain in the horizon, she had been terrified, exhausted, and desperate. desperate to find geralt, terrified of what it could mean, exhausted, by the sheer amount of time and effort it had taken her to find her way into it again. she had come here to look for geralt, to turn to somewhere she'd thought she would find answers. somewhere she thought she could find help. and she had found help, found solutions, but had found something much worse as well.

she had been a near shell of herself, flickering in and out of the horizon with each passing moment, unable to keep her hold, her focus. now - well. her connection is hardly stable, she is hardly back to normal, but she does make it here. she is able to make it into the horizon. and not because she is looking for anything, but because she knows what is waiting for her when she arrives.

yennefer arrives to the horizon much in the same way she'd arrived to the gallows, with chair in chains to her side. knowing what waited for her, knowing who would be.

( she doesn't blame him. thinks, maybe, she knows what he's feeling. she hadn't said anything to him when she'd had the chance, had comes to that final speech still uncertain. part of her, enough of a part of her, had still wanted to go through the solvunn portal, not because she'd wanted to go to solvunn, but because she hadn't wanted to face the disappointment in geralt's eyes. but when the portals had opened and everyone had ben ushered through, when the choice had been in front of her...

she'd looked back long enough to find him in the crowd. had looked directly at him - as if in apology - as she'd walked through the portal back to thorne. )

his presence, there, had not been surprising so much as the fact that he had remained. that he lingered. that he waited. that was when it had become obvious that her decision, what she'd done, would not go unconfronted, and yennefer excused herself from whatever it had been she was doing and left for her room. it wasn't much later, though it was later enough, that she found herself back in her domain again. that she sees the still smoldering husk.

( for a brief moment, the sight catches her, as she places what it is. she hasn't been back to her domain since their last discussion, hadn't realized what had been here in its place. now, she only sees the burning embers. the fragile frame. the smell of dark soot. )

he is there, leaned up against a tree, and yennefer turns to him - not in her traveling gear, not harried and dirty and worn thin. now, she is dressed in something he would expect to see her in - perhaps a traveling dress, or one of her longer fur coats. she is tired, yes, but it is of a different sort. the sort of tired that has her swallowing, once. has her jaw set, her back straight. acceptance.

she faces him, takes in all that she can from his body language alone, before her eyes meet his. ]

Geralt.

[gynvael]

[ Geralt contains the perfect combination of sheer stubbornness and learned patience to force unwanted confrontations. Not once does it cross his mind to consider what he may do if Yennefer won't show. He just waits.

She shows.

She does not look harried or desperate. She looks almost sure in her decision. Like she knows, like she always knew, what it would mean. Had he expected different? No. He had not. She'd realized then, as well, when she walked off with Ciri. His eyes land on her, steady. There's no longer a sense that he's searching—that there's something he's looking for in her. Not as before. What he'd hoped might've been, he's accepted is not.

He walks forward. Closes the distance between them. It isn't an attempt to be closer. There is no bridge he wants to extend. He doesn't reach out for her. ] You knew then, too. What she means to me. I trusted you to protect her and you sold her for yourself. 

[ He had not said it until now. Not that he intended to hide it. He just—when they'd spoken, those times before, he wanted...to try. To leave what may have happened back home. To not confront her over what she doesn't even fucking remember. But he has no desire to let her continue on, believing that her betrayal is any less than it is. This—her, taking Ciri. Delivering her to Voleth Meir. It was never a mistake, a stumble, a decision made in an instant and then regretted afterwards, too late to take back.

She spent time with Ciri. She spent the night with him at the temple. She understood exactly what she was doing. ] 

sam.

[gynvael]

[ Even between contracts, Geralt was never in one place. He would travel, one place to the next, and that meant there was a constant stream of tasks that needed to be done: hunting, cleaning his gear, restocking his supplies, making camp. Taking care of Roach.

It's not so now. Rinwell looks after the horses; food's not in short supply in the city. He can no longer brew the most potent of the elixirs he uses and the ones he can make are not difficult to come by through the local apothecary—or from Nadine. It leaves him with far less to occupy his time. He is not a man who is easily bored, but he is a man who's used to doing. His is not a life that grants a lot of space to sit and relax and do nothing. He has too much on his mind for that, anyway.

Without a hunt to prepare for, he turns to their new home instead. It's decent for what it is, but there are rickety chairs and crooked shelves and broken hinges. If they're to stay here, he may as well put some time into fixing it up. Besides, he's grown up making repairs around Kaer Morhen. This isn't much different.

He's on the floor by the unlit fireplace, a few planks of wood around him. He's put two new shelves up in their kitchen for Jaskier's potted plants. Jaskier did not ask him to do this, but he's done it nonetheless. Now he's moved onto sanding a few planks of wood: small rectangular pieces that may or may not fit to become a miniature bed. He does not look up when hears Sam approach. The door isn't locked—rarely is, when Geralt is home, because anything that could be stopped by a single lock on a wooden door is unlikely to be a threat to him. Despite the work he's been doing, there are few signs of it: no mess in the other areas of the house or scraps of wood left scattered, just a few tools neatly unrolled beside him. ]

[falcony]

[ the return back from the summit had brought something of a whirlwind into the city. between the absolute failure of the final presentation and all of the new summoned that sam met and wanted to keep up with, they both had plenty on their plates. it also didn't help - whatever that eclipse had ended up being. sam wasn't the omen sort of guy, but even he felt something a little off around that night. and yes, while sam hadn't had a lot of time to check in with geralt or his other friends during those twenty four hours, as he spent a majority of it helping the locals (merchants moving in and out of the city, helping scared locals find their ways home, assisting the guard in whatever it was they could have asked for at the time), he hasn't really had time to help with the move beyond the initial conversation and helping with the price. it's part of why it takes sam up until this point to make his way to the house...well. that and few other things, too. he supposes some of this might come up, or it might not, but the first and actual purpose for sam grabbing the nice bottle of liquor and very few plans for the rest of the evening is in part to see the new place.

and also in part something else entirely.

because sam's noticed - or at least, has noticed enough time he thinks he's allowed to assume. mentions from jaskier about geralt's projects, never quite seeing the other for more than short stretches of time because he has to go pick up this, or go work on that. at first, sam thought it was just the work itself, but the longer time has gone on, and the more this insistent business has continued, well. sam knows why he does it. knows what kind of thing sets him off to that sort of continued work. and usually there is something a lot more involved than sam is aware of.

which is why he's here, now. knocking on the new door once before going for the handle, assuming it's unlocked as geralt tends to leave it when he's home. ]

Yo- anyone here? [ it's a dumb question, he knows geralt is here, but habit calls for it all the same, and when he steps in and closes it back behind him he finds geralt about where he expected to - mid project, materials in hand. sam smiles, friendly and familiar. ] Figured I'd come by to see how the place is shaping up. You near a stopping point? [ and then, just to accentuate the point, he tilts the bottle back and forth. ]

[gynvael]

[ Sam steps in, invited by default. Geralt keeps working, twisting in a screw. They've seen each other, spoken briefly—but Geralt's only returned to the city a week ago, after the eclipse, and he's kept busy since.

Sometimes he thinks about it. The ashes and scorch marks as he's putting up shelves here. Unpacking. Rebuilding, in the only way he's learned how: by finding a place he can return to, with those who know him best. Like Sam. Geralt need not question whether Sam's recognized something may have happened. It wouldn't be difficult to piece it together: he'd told Sam about Yennefer and Solvunn, and she obviously did not leave for Solvunn. Sam knows. And Geralt knows that he knows and that eventually, he would show up as he has tonight.

Bottle in hand, naturally.

Geralt sighs, but it's acceptance rather than resignation. He puts the plank of wood aside. ] I could be convinced.

[ Yeah. He can stop for a drink. He gets up and finds two pewter mugs in the cupboard. Sam must have just as much on his mind. Hasn't been the quietest of months. Or the kindest. They make do. ]