abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] through open passageways

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

Edited 2022-03-06 00:23 (UTC)

[ 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?

Edited 2022-03-07 05:25 (UTC)

[ 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?

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

thancred + jaskier (feat. moglad)

dean.

peter.

rinwell.

jaskier.

yennefer.

sam.