abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] through open passageways

You have got two of them. [ The remark comes deadpan, as it tends to, because they've both been there. Near misses. Vital organs and such.

He squints a bit at Dean, like he knows Dean is humming a vague tune at him but he doesn't recognize it. He shifts the scorpions to his other shoulder. Sidesteps an overgrown rat scurrying between his feet with the indifference of a man who frequently shares his space with a variety of vermin. ]

Escorted a wagon on my way back. Twitchy bastard. Paid, though.

[ It's rare he bothers to bodyguard for money—people never listen to him, even when they're paying him to keep them from being eaten, and then they complain he didn't fulfill his end after not fucking listening—but, well. If the world is to be inflicted by this damn eclipse, he may as well take what opportunities it grants. ]

( You have got two of them — he grunts absently in agreement. Hunter humor. Classic stuff, apparently regardless of what realm of existence you're from.

Vermin, less so. For all the blood and guts he's covered with regularly, Slight Germaphobe Dean Winchester is not a fan of rats. It gets a passing lip-curl in faint disgust. Look man, those things carry the plague and he's fresh out of Purell. )

What, you're playing man servant today? That sounds like a fun change of pace.

( Gotta give ya boy a little shit for being an escort. As a wise Mandalorian will one day say: This Is The Way. )

Hope he didn't pay you in scorpions. You're worth more than that, don't sell yourself short, Gerald.

( Also a joke, though the near-toneless delivery might not be all that obvious. Then again, Geralt's got the sense of humor and general demeanor of a pancake in a hydraulic press. Maybe it translates.

Somebody else goes to sidestep a rat — little bastards are bold in the dark, aren't they? — and shoulder-checks him. Wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for that whole lung removal thing. He grunts again, this time a winded and sharply annoyed sound, accompanied by a sharp glare at the passing civilian, who scurries off faster than the rodents at their feet. )

[ His golden gaze slides over to Dean. It glints ever-so-slightly in the ring's glowing light which bobs along as they walk. His lips curl at the edges, though it might be hard to spot in the darkness. Other than that, his answer is, unsurprisingly, flat. ]

Negotiation advice from a man who never got paid all his life. I'll take it to heart.

[ He's only saying. He's ready to stroll alongside Dean in his usual silence when there's a stumble, a noise, and he reaches out on instinct to steady the other man. There's the briefest frown as he watches the culprit vanish into the crowd. He hates crowded cities. Occasionally, he misses the days when people would know to get out of a Witcher's way.

Maybe it's their turn to step off the street. Wait for this damn eclipse to pass over. It's been half a day and shows no sign of abating. Troubling, to say the least. ]

Hungry? [ He did earn a decent amount this afternoon and Dean looks, hm. Like he could sit down for a bit. ]

Yeah, yeah, shut up.

( A mumbled out concession; one point to Geralt. You got him there, College.

Color him surprised by the steadying hand — though it probably shouldn't be. You successfully hunt with a guy, especially with synergy, you're pretty much on that level from that point on. Alright, then. Check off get handsy on the list, see if Geralt comes to regret that down the like. Dean's a tactile guy.

He's also a hungry guy. )

Always.

( Emphatically. Just... so much enthusiasm. )

Quick question, shot in the dark. You know if they've invented pizza here yet?

( Worth a try. Maybe some young, ambitious displaced soul from the 21st century on Earth did an upstart restaurant or something. )

[ Dean answers without hesitation and Geralt isn't even sure why he made it a question. He saw the man at Sam's Christmas feast. Emphasis on feast.

Not that Geralt isn't seeking something that's more than a few desert hares to roast. He was out there for over a week; he's dusty and he wants a decent drink. Possibly a— ]

—A what?

[ The fuck is. A pizza. There are a few foods he's been introduced to, thanks to eager folk in the Horizon, including burgers, fries, and chocolate peanut butter. Truthfully, the first two do not strike him as too strange. It's fatty and covered in salt, which is not unusual for what food on the Continent resembles. Damn near everything is preserved in salt. The desserts and sweets are beyond him. (Why is there so much sugar.)

In short, no: he's never heard of pizza. ]

( Damn it. )

Oho, dude. You are missing out. Listen.

( Cue your boy over here talking with his hands, gesticulation is the highest form of emphasis in the sign language of Dean Winchester. )

You. Me. Horizon. Man date.

( Followed by a Very Serious look, and a vow of: )

It'll change your life.

( Probably not, but whatever. Pizza, beer, zeppelin, and pool. Might be nice to do something besides murder things and eat medieval stew once in a while.

Tragically, Horizon food doesn't fill your stomach here in reality. It's pub-wards they go. Time to get down on a whole freakin' chicken. )

Hm. [ Geralt's expression is skeptical as to the impact upon his life, but the noise is thoughtful where the invitation is concerned. He's actually not seen Dean's created space. Might be worth looking at, if only because he's learned they say a lot about a person. (He does not ask Dean to clarify what's meant by man date.)

Besides, every so often he needs to get away from the fucking dry heat. He misses the cold. He misses snow. He's not seen snow in nearly a year, other than in the Horizon and his brief foray to Nott, which simply doesn't comprehend for him. He grew up on snowy peaks and frozen mountains. Desert climates are not. Ideal.

Currently, the sun's blotted out so some of that heat has dissipated. It makes wandering the streets more pleasant. He's been in Cadens long enough to know where a decent meal for cheap can be had: a corner tavern with mismatched chairs and a stuffed sand mole on display for reasons he's yet to figure out. He steps in, scorpions and all. Just tucks them under the table. ]

What is it? That you made. [ The Horizon, he means. So he can find it, if he ever happens in. ]

( He can't say much for cold or snow — spent a good chunk of his time in the south, especially Texas, and he gravitates towards Kansas. He is on the same page about the dry heat right now, though. He feels like he's been in freakin' Phoenix, and every time he complains about it he half expects somebody to go off on a stupid tangent about how he should be grateful because it ain't the heat that gets ya, it's the humidity or whatever.

Wouldn't mind a little yule log vacation. Cabin in the mountains. Watching other people try to ski on the rookie slopes and fall over while double-fisting whiskey and hot cocoa. Sign him up for a couple of weeks for a change of pace.

It is nice how normalized monsters are here, though. No secrets, no fake IDs, just dropping your friggin' corpse under the table while you have your brunch. Wouldn't mind taking that back home. )

It's a bar. Guess you'd call it a tavern. ( A pause, and a sway. ) Mostly. Dive in the middle of nowhere, across the street from-

( Skrrt, pause. Geralt's not gonna know what a freaking salvage yard is. Reframe. )

...a place people work on cars. Something a friend of mine used to own.

( Friend is easier to say than father figure.

We're just not gonna mention Purgatory. Amos stumbled across it on accident, and although he took it pretty well, he's not all that proud that it exists in his domain. Not really a conscious choice to put it there, but he also hasn't been making the decision to get rid of it, either... )

Edited 2022-03-09 12:27 (UTC)

[ Dean says a bar, but the way he describes it almost feels like it should be the bar. Because if Dean, as any hunter, roams the continent killing monsters, then there must be few places he'd come by regularly. It makes the rare handful that become places to visit, where the doors are always open, especially significant.

Geralt has not made the decision to try and fix...that which lies underneath the keep, either, so that makes two of them. He's not even sure he can, if it'll only come back. For the time being, he's simply locked it. Only two people have accidentally stumbled on it. One of whom is also—coincidence—Amos.

He gets their table a pitcher, orders himself whatever freshly made thing they have on hand to eat; it's never the same, day by day.

Only after does he say, ] If I see it, I may step in.

[ It isn't a promise, but it's more commitment than he gives most people. ]

( Geralt's right — he usually is, the perceptive son of a bitch. It's the bar, the one that should've been home. The one that took potential out of his life with it when it burned.

They put in the same order, go figure, except Dean woefully laments the lack of jalapeno poppers and the guy running the joint looks at him sideways before he wanders off.

Man, he'd make so much freaking gold if he opened up his own restaurant. The universally displaced alone would keep him in business. )

Knock yourself out. Door's always open.

( Which is to say, door's always open for Geralt, and the other people he trusts at least a little. Also, speak of the devil- )

Might be a guy hanging out in there even when I'm not around. Amos is a regular.

( Figures Geralt might appreciate the heads-up. Strikes Dean as the slightly anti-social sort. He's gathered the two of them are cool, though, so probably ain't a problem. )

Edited 2022-03-11 11:55 (UTC)

[ Amos, was it? Somehow, Geralt's not surprised to hear the man can be found there nor that he and Dean have connected. Amos seems to drift towards certain people and apparently those people are the ones Geralt keeps company with, too: no bullshit, uncaring of his tendency towards silence, easy to drink with.

Possibly a habit of ignoring him when he tells them to fuck off.

Not that they're quite the same; he's come to know Amos in a manner that makes it clear the other man has a particular grasp on the world, a way of being, which Geralt does not hold for himself. But they do have an understanding. ]

You're likely to find him around mine from time to time.

[ Less so inviting himself in, because Geralt opens the actual doors of the fortress to very, very few at the moment—it's complicated—but the exterior is never shut off and Amos has a standing invitation to use the training yard whenever he desires. No point in training if he can't practice on his own. ]

( Amos may not be a hunter, but he is of a certain breed. He's the kind of stock that would make one, probably, if that was the kind of world he came from.

More or less confirmed by his short stint in Dean's recreation of Purgatory, and how good he seemed to feel about decapitating some Leviathans afterward. Dean doesn't know him much more deeply than that. Surface level takes time and certain circumstances to properly breach for him, both coming and going. They waded in a little, that first face to face meeting. The potential exists.

Anyway, this stirs up a good question: )

Yeah? What's yours?

( Dean has this way about him that crops up on rare occasions — it's a combination of things: overall demeanor, micro-expressions, general body language. It isn't exactly scrutinizing, it's not that he's subtly picking apart somebody's inner workings — mainly because there's nothing subtle about it. He doesn't bother disguising it, and that leaves it feeling safe — not a big deal.

It's the vibe of somebody genuinely looking at you. Serious, studious, judgment-free but obviously wholly aware that there's a deeper meaning or greater implication happening in the conversation. It's like an effortlessly open, understated connection point.

Domains are incredibly telling insight into a person; their past, their mental state, who they are. He's interested as hell in Geralt's, and what it says about him. )

[ The pause is not hesitation, but a moment or two while he considers. He's made his place for a reason; it wouldn't be there if he had a problem with people seeing it. Removed from the threats of humans, there's no reason to hide it. But he normally lets them see it and make of it what they will. He does not explain his domain, beyond we return here in winter, except to those who know him well. Almost never actually describes to anyone what it is.

Lately, it's been more complicated, too. After all that's happened there. The past, the present. Ciri.

He studies Dean right back before he eventually gives his answer. ] A fortress. Deep in the mountains. Where Witchers are made and trained.

[ It's home, is what he isn't quite saying. Home in the most complicated of ways. Dean will discover much more to the story laid in its scarred walls and the bones scattered in the snow, but that's for when he eventually finds it.

Also the wolf. Geralt frequently forgets to mention the large white wolf that stalks the grounds; it almost never registers as a significant point to note. It doesn't bite. ]

( Now that's an answer. Given what Dean knows about Geralt's childhood — admittedly not much, but still — his first impulse might have been surprise. Except the thing is, he was raised in the Impala. Home is home, even if it's where you broke into what you are. Geralt can probably track the face journey through microexpressions — fleeting surprise, the passing of soft realization that shifts gradually into understanding.

Hell, between his car and Bobby's, he's practically got his own fortress in the mountains going on there.

He doesn't say any of that, though. There's a balance here Dean finds naturally — or maybe it's just a balance for him — where honesty is met with levity almost step for step. )

Well damn, Jerry. Way to flex on the rest of us lowly tavern keeps with your mountain castle.

( He's not gonna invite himself over with a similar if I see it I'll swing by, but... he might. If he happens across a mountain fortress, a little tourist gazing is bound to go down.

Might be nice to know about that wolf, though. He's got kind of a history with giant freaking dogs. Is he afraid of them? No, of course not. They just kind of make him shit his pants a little. It's totally different. )

[ He's quiet after that, not adding further. He's offered as much as he's willing in one sitting; the rest will have to come another time.

Dean doesn't ask, though; just looks at him. Yeah. He supposes they do have an understanding. It's the sort that can only come with those who've never had anything whole and unspoiled to call their own. They make what they can of the pieces that are there. Sometimes home is where both your most painful and warmest memories live and that's simply what it is.

He rolls his eyes, tipping the pitcher into the waiting mugs on the table. He slides one over towards Dean. ] Hardly a castle, unless for the rats. Only ever had one princess in those walls.

[ The rats are in fact in his Horizon-formed one, too. He's created it as it is, because it's a dilapidated shithole, always has been. He's never known it any different. It isn't home without the dust and cracked ceilings. That permanent winter chill. The sound of little claws scratching on the stone floors. That's where the strange comfort of it lies.

One day, he'll explain where the fuck that wolf even came from but it's a long story. Let's just say Jaskier made it, back when their memories were not quite present, and it isn't a coincidence the scars happen to match Geralt's own. Yes, Geralt is aware of this. No, he will not discuss it in any manner. It's just a wolf. ]

( Dean takes the mug and raises it to his lips, but before he drinks he cocks his head to the side a little and mumbles into the cup; )

Had more than one princess in my castle, I'll tell you that much.

( Followed by a pointed drink.

Princesses were flowing in and outta that Impala like Six Flags in July.

He'd get the rats thing too, though. Dean's rebuilt the Impala — both in his mind and in reality — with every little flaw it was supposed to have. Carved initials in wood paneling. Army men jammed in ashtrays. Bobby's house is as cluttered and dusty upstairs as it ever was back home. He doesn't believe in only taking the good and leaving the bad. Call it authenticity, call it real, call it whatever you want. )

[ A deep sigh trails after Dean's remark. It's such a typically Dean response, Geralt doesn't even grace it with a reply.

Instead, some time after the food lands unceremoniously on the table, he asks, ] You've learned to use that power of yours?

[ The unexpected magic bestowed on people remains a curiosity to him. That it manifests differently in folk makes sense. That there are those in which it seems to not show at all makes less sense. They're all connected to the Singularity the same way, are they not? Or is that a presumption that might prove incorrect?

Might be. A lot, they don't yet know. In any case, it's a useful skill for a hunter who's entirely human. ]

( Congratulations, Geralt! You have now joined in with an elite list of people who know Dean well enough to completely ignore Extremely Dean Things. It's like some kind of rite of passage to progress through Friendship Stages. Allow the fatigue to flow through you. Brace for future flecks of annoyance or fondness where appropriate.

He's balls deep in a chicken wing when the question floats up, and he answers with one cheek puffed up with food. )

Hell no.

( Bluntly, but not unpleasantly. )

Probably wouldn't have almost had a vivisection for breakfast this morning if I could. Practically took a Chaigon's head off the other day on accident, though, when it went for my horse. ( He swallows, then sways a little in a half-shrug. ) Not that the horse gave a crap. Total ingrate. But uh- no. Seems like it just comes and goes whenever it wants.

( If he had the faintest bit of control over it, bet your ass he'd be swapping those two incidents. )

[ Unfortunate, that Dean will never have the chance to encounter Yarpen Zigrin and his band of merrily slaughtering dwarves. They'd get along swimmingly.

Geralt has a bone in his own hand, thoughtful expression on his face. When it went for his horse? ]

Like when it went for me. [ Twice does not make a pattern, but hm. Something to consider, for when it happens a third time. ] I couldn't tell you much more. Never picked up magic in this place.

[ He supposes he could, if he spent the time and effort. He simply hasn't found it worth that time. Feels as if it'll interfere not only with his work, but with how he's learned to fight since he was boy. The most he's considered is perhaps seeing what more he could do to strengthen his Signs here and there.

Besides. Visenna was a sorceress. A mage. He is not. He never had his chance to decide, to explore what aptitude he may or may not have had, because she handed him over to the Witchers. Closed every door for him in the process. Deep down, he's reluctant to ever veer towards a path that belongs to someone that never was. ]

( Buddy, you could not even fathom how awesomely he would get along with those dwarves. Force to be reckoned with. It's for the best the world never sees that team-up.

Like when it went for me; vague, unhelpful shrug. Two times a pattern doesn't necessarily make, but who knows. Could be. )

It ain't like what we had back home. ( So he can relate. ) Where I'm from it was more... stick fifteen ingredients in a bowl on a full moon, burn somebody's hair over a map to figure out where they are type crap. Summoning stuff. Rituals.

( Pause, and then an amendment— )

Well, except for demons or demon-sponsored witches, but screw those clowns. If you gotta maim your soul to throw a fireball, it's not worth learning. Besides, fireballs can't stop bullets and you can't cast spells after your head gets chopped off.

( If you can dodge a wrench, etc. )

It's all magic. Just the degree to which it manifests.

[ Ambrose once suggested the connection to magic is strengthened here due to their proximity to the Singularity. Geralt thinks this may be true. It would track, that worlds which exist on some invisible path further from the monolith holds less magic than those closer to it. To him, it's the only thing that explains the threads of commonality between how magic is formed across each realm: variations on rituals and alchemy and spellcasting, manipulation of the elements. No two are exactly the same, but it's all more similar than not. Same idea for the monsters.

The biggest difference is not in what type. Rather, it's in how much. As in, how much of the magic and monsters are present in each world itself. ]

Back home, mages are trained into such if they exhibit early signs of Chaos. A conduit moment, they call it. Perhaps on your sphere, the connection is weaker. More complex spells can't be cast without making deals with...demons.

[ It would also explain why Dean's world apparently draws more of them. Because people seek them out, for what mystical gains they may want. Powerful mages for hire would not available, as they are on the Continent, since no one wields that amount of power in the first place—thus, demons. ]

( It ain't a bad theory. Stick that big fuck-off rock in Boise and a crapload of randos would probably start throwing fireballs out of nowhere, too. At least this place is more equipped to handle that kind of chaos — with a lower case c. Dean would be working himself into the freaking grave back home.

He hums distantly, thoughtfully. Gives one of those little tiny sways that read you might be right but who knows. )

With one or two exceptions. Gods. Angels. The occasional anomalous douchebag. Trendline on the idea holds up.

( Followed by an absent shrug. )

Anyway, point being that ain't really my thing, so. I'm not gonna go holding my breath on joining wizard school. Think I'll stick to the stabbing tactic. It's been working for me so far.

( A beat. )

Well, I've died like a dozen times, but aside from that.

Edited 2022-03-12 14:55 (UTC)

Those are entities. [ Geralt says it casually. People can call them what they want, but they're all entities. Chaos flows through them differently. It's largely humans who need to be taught to channel magic, and humans who don't always have the affinity to do so. Except here. Even ones who normally would not in their own sphere, like Jaskier.

He peers closely at Dean with a mouthful of chicken. He doesn't think it's entirely a joke, but he's not certain he wants to ask for the full story of how one dies a dozen times over a meal.

Hmm. Or.

—No. He won't ask. He slips the information away for another time.

His eyebrow lifts. ] You and I have a different definition of what counts as working.

( Touché, Geralt. You got him there. Also, probably good call on holding the questions if he plans on keeping his appetite.

Actually, you know what, considering their careers, that probably wouldn't make much of a difference. Still doesn't make for fun, pleasant dinner conversation. )

Yeah, well. You're a biologically engineered whirling dervish with bricks for bones, and my best friend used to have a shortcut to the afterlife. Call it a lifestyle difference, agree to disagree.

( Casually, dismissively, and preceding another too-big Meat Bite. Just normal, everyday stuff people say all the time happening over at this table. It's fine.

The keywords should probably be used to, though. Can't exactly fall back on that anymore. Dead's gonna mean dead — which you'd think would make him more reluctant to do dumbass suicidal crap, but uh.

Nope. )

What, your angel?

[ Geralt is only asking to ask, because there's a point where he does not grasp half the shit Dean says and he isn't looking to, either. It doesn't especially bother him; he's pieced things together bit by bit, every time the occasional remark or answer fills in a blank space. Not all of it makes sense in the moment, but eventually, some of it starts to.

What Dean is insinuating sounds like an impossibly powerful form of necromancy. But he's certain that's not what the man means because that's. Hm.

He takes a drink. Maybe he shouldn't have even asked about the angel part. As always, though, there's an instinct that lives inside Geralt which makes him...tug. On certain doors that shouldn't be opened. ]

[ CLOSED ] through open passageways

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