abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

[ There's a hint of a shrug—he doesn't know which part of his three-second tale provoked that look, so no clarification is offered.

One eyebrow quirks upward when Dean's knife buries itself—pinpoint accurate, but failing else-wise. Good to know his extensive experience finding some semblance of a challenge amongst unnaturally trained monster hunters has proven worthwhile.

He hasn't any concept of quality, no. But between the cars that sit across the street and the few he's glimpsed in other people's pictures, memories, moving television sets—he has got a concept of aesthetic and that, at least, is a feature he can grasp. Like breeds of horses, he supposes. The connection's there. He's beginning to make it. ]

You're the first to create one. Might still be the only. [ As far as he can remember, no one else made their car inside this plane. It makes sense. Travel here isn't necessary. For most, that's all it would be: a mode of transport. But in the same way Geralt has made Roach despite not ever needing to ride her, Dean obviously has an attachment to his car that goes beyond moving from one place to another.

He lets loose his second dagger: it counts, though the blade lands a bit off-center of the square. Trick throws for recreation is not a craft he dedicates his time to honing. But a win's a win. He reaches behind them to fill the glasses. ] Drink.

Yeah, yeah. Shut up.

( He mutters dismissively, reaching for his glass and begrudgingly taking his sip. He exhales after the swallow, plunks it down, and points the knife hilt at Geralt. )

Don't get cocky, kid, that was a warm-up.

( Four knives still embedded into the board, and he makes no move to take them down. See if they can't fill the damn thing up, really spice up the finale.

Pure stubbornness gets him going for white again — it's a half-flip, but a little precariously close to the line. Not touching it. Still counts. Good enough for him. )

Guess that means you've never ridden in one?

( Said with a little quirk to the eyebrow and a sideways glance. Rhetorical question, the answer's obvious, and he's quite pleased to announce: )

Wellp, looks like I get to be the one to pop your cherry, Gerry. That is... freakin' delightful.

[ A look is cast in Dean's direction, almost a little bemused. That's a new one. ] I'm over thrice your years, boy.

[ Has he mentioned that? Perhaps not. Witcher longevity isn't a secret; he doesn't keep track of who he happens to have told or not.

He takes a drink from his beer. He can see what Dean's doing by leaving the daggers in—consider him on board. It's an element he's not ever played with before. Infinite knives don't exist in reality. Here, they can.

He flings another at black, and it lands well enough, just above Dean's blade on white. Once the squares start to fill, though—that'll be something to see. ]

Sounds enchanting. [ Said flatly, as usual. Not that he isn't intrigued. To him, cars appear to be horseless carriages. Geralt as a general rule prefers not to be stuck inside a metal carriage, but there must be an appeal to it all if these cars have overtaken half the spheres out there. ] I'm expecting a magnificent fucking display.

( So preoccupied is he with the way more important part of this conversation, his brain glosses over that first bit for a moment. He registers the words, but they're back-burnered for processing. Put in a queue to wait their turn. )

Oh. Oh it will be. ( He says with grave certainty, the utmost seriousness, most important words he ever said or something. ) Soon as we're done here...

( The I'm gonna blow your mind conclusion remains unspoken but implied. No speed limits in the horizon, baby. Just the right level of curves in these manufactured backwoods roads. Wide open for gunning it. It's gonna be real.

...and then, finally, that first part registers, just as he's about to throw his dagger. He stops, double-takes. )

Wait, did you say thrice?

[ Geralt tips back more of his ale, at one point sips the whisky, too, because it might be a drinking game but he's also just here to drink and he may as well even the ground between them on top of that. He has a leg up on how much liquor he can hold. More Witcher things, as Dean might say.

He watches the board, waiting for the knife to land. Not until Dean looks over at him does Geralt look back. ]

We're long-lived. [ Not immortal, as the rumours say, nor ageless. He looks away again. ] One of our...improvements.

[ If it is an improvement. Might have been a side effect the mages hadn't foreseen and decided it wasn't important to adjust one way or another. He's never quite determined which was which for some aspects of how they turned out.

Sometimes it feels like a joke. It isn't as though they're built to make anything fulfilling out of their long years. Doesn't exactly stop them from an early death, either. ]

( There's a contemplative moment on his end where he turns the knife over in his hand a few times. He could make a few off-hand comments about it, but as he's gotten older he's also gotten a little more pessimistic about life in general. The first thought that comes to mind is more like that's gotta be goddamn exhausting. He can't really imagine it. Hell, he can't see himself living another five years half the time, but another - what - sixty? Seventy?

After a beat, he throws his knife — no spin, dead center black. Thank god. )

Yeah, well. I did a forty-year stint in hell, so let's call it twice-ish. Drink.

( Not exactly an abundance of silver linings about that whole thing, so when he can use it as bragging rights for something? Damn right he'll take it. )

[ Now it's Geralt's turn to blink, bottle midway to his lips. His eyes narrow. From the start, Dean's rather smelled human and never stated himself to be anything other. But as he's come to know the man, he suspects that while Dean may be human in the most technical sense, there must be more to him.

He exchanges his beer for the whisky and dutifully takes his share. ] That's a spell longer than purgatory.

[ An invitation to expand on the matter is in there somewhere, but Dean can take it or leave it as he will. His concept of other realms and the possibilities they hold has shifted since they first spoke; in some ways, it makes some of what Dean has mentioned less puzzling. Some. A quarter, perhaps.

Another dagger and he tops off Dean's glass for him to take his drink. Eight knives buried in wood and about half the squares empty or so. They'll have to start slipping in between each other soon. ]

( Human in the most technical sense is a hilariously not-inaccurate description that Dean would both dislike and have a hard time disagreeing with. You die as much as he has, you see the crap he has, you get as close to becoming a demon as he has, you become a god damn vampire like he has, definitions start getting real blurry. He'd like to cling desperately to the whole humanity concept, though — call it a little ingrained prejudice against pretty much any other species. Product of his upbringing. He's better about it now than he was. One of his best friends is an angel and the other is a vampire, what a time to be alive.

He hums out an affirmative noise, not quite a grunt, that somehow clearly reads you can say that again.

And now comes the weird assessment of how to answer the unspoken curiosity obviously floating around about it now without oversharing — not because he gives much of a crap about telling it, but because his life story is a goddamn mile long and more than most people would probably be interested in hearing.

( Unless you're from that stupid universe where his life is a TV show, but that's gotta be some freak one-off. )

He'll offer up a slice of commentary from the lighter end of the spectrum that might clarify a little. )

I was alive in Purgatory. Dead for hell. Time... moves differently down there. Four months on Earth, forty years in the pit. Guess it depends on your perspective, but if we're having a dick measuring contest here, I'm claiming my honorary seventy, grandpa.

( Still dry, still joking, it's just a more grim, less of the haha I'm an idiot brand of humor than he tosses out to any passing jackass. Welcome to the darker, next level gallows humor floating around in his brain. It's reserved for VIPs. Congratulations.

It lends itself to a little more serious concentration, too — meaning his next knife is a perfect half-turn dead goddamn center. Definitely won't last through the rest of the board, but when he's in the zone, he's in the zone. )

[ That's a sentiment they both share—a reluctance for details not because it matters (not always because it matters, at least), but because the story is fucking complicated.

He flips his dagger idly in one hand while Dean mulls it over, eventually gives an answer that only opens up more questions. If it were the time, Geralt might've prodded further into the how and why: flow of time, entering and exiting another realm, what the fuck death has got to do with it—but it isn't. He makes note for later, and then merely throws his knife after Dean does. Edges close to a line, but not a miss. ]

Years lived are years lived. [ An acknowledgement of what Dean's told him, of what it means, without getting much into it. ] One ceases to keep track after awhile, anyhow.

[ If he stops to count, then he can say his age down to the year. Ask him to answer right then and there, though, and at best, Geralt can estimate himself a little past a hundred or so. Some days he thinks the years mean fuck all; other days, it feels like at least he's still here, surviving, and maybe that's worth more than nothing.

Maybe it's a sudden change in the music, maybe he's distracted considering what exactly Dean's little revelation could mean for the Singularity, but the next throw finally trips—landing too close over the line between two blades. Hm. Unfortunate. ]

I'll take your word for it.

( He sounds a little surface-level amused, but the truth is he gets the principal. Life feels long sometimes. Fast and slow, heavy as hell, with one year rolling into the next and the next and the next with the only significant difference being how much worse it can get. He's stopped tracking the passage of it by birthdays and he's swapped to a system more along the lines of after dad died or after hell or after Sam lost his soul or, more recently, after Purgatory.

Geralt misses, and Dean — having approximately zero grace, apparently — celebrates with a hissed out yesss and a barely-restrained little fist pump. )

Had me worried you were gonna punk me out, man. Guess he's not infallible.

( Followed by an encouraged throw of the knife — which does a full flip before it lands.

His face falls flat again. )

Ah, crap.

( That's what happens when you feel joy and throw knives. It's not part of the rules, but he takes himself a nice punishment drink anyway. )

[ If Dean were to ever mention it, they could compare notes on how they divide up the eras of their lives. Before and after. Geralt can't even say it was born after too many decades on the earth. He's been doing it since the day he found himself at a frozen stone fortress buried in the rocks—and any moment that occurred before then almost doesn't feel a part of his life. Not truly. Memories of someone he once knew, perhaps.

He lets Dean's celebration draw him out of his thoughts. There's a quiet huff. ] I've had more chances to learn from my mistakes.

[ He is fucking good at what he does. He's also got the scars from all the moments that brought him to where he is. A combination of long years and his inherent durability.

His knife buries itself in between two others, with a faint metallic ring where it barely grazes the blade beside it. What's left of his beer is emptied before he moves onto the whisky: a sign that he's steadily giving up on what little semblance remained that this competition isn't just an excuse to drink.

Besides, he's still too sober after this many daggers stuck to the board. They'll run out of room if he only drinks according to the rules. ]

( Dean grunts out a sound - either thoughtful or just acknowledgement - at that Hashtag Deep answer. Stands for a little too long considering the board like they're playing actual chess. This crap's reached the part where it's harder; there's no easy place to throw that isn't rendered tiny and overcrowded. If they were just zinging 'em in any way they wanted, that would be one thing. Figuring out how to half-flip something so it finishes its turn and straightens up enough to fit in there? That's a whole damn ordeal.

Never generally one to let things stay quiet too long, Dean plucks a question from the lighter end of the spectrum on his Questions About Geralt list. )

How 'bout family?

( He asks, finally lining himself up to take his shot. )

Do Witchers have siblings?

( He throws his blade. It looks like a total money-shot, but the tip catches on the hilt of the knife above it, and it clatters to the floor.

His head falls forward, and he expresses his displeasure to the floor. )

[ Geralt's moved from the stool to leaning against the table. He looks a bit contemplative, up until Dean says family. Then there's a noncommittal hum—depends on how one defines family. ]

We make our own. [ He picks up the next dagger, though he doesn't throw it. Dean's bounces off to the floor and his lips quirk just a hint—less from the miss, more from Dean's reaction. ] Vesemir raised four mutated boys. Before we were old enough to leave for the Path, for most of the year, it was only us. The others would drift in come winter. One or two less each time.

[ They're all family; all brothers, but not in the way most would imagine. Vesemir was both a mentor and a guardian. If he really thinks about it, he supposes they effectively grew up in an orphanage. Just one designed to churn out Witchers and where only three of ten survive to see the next month.

He takes another drink. Throws and for the first time, fucks up the spin. It lands, though, taking up yet one more sliver of space on the board. ]

( Something wry and knowing tugs at his lips, pulling one corner up into a smile. We make our own — yeah, that sounds about right. The more he gets to know Geralt, the more it cements the fact that a hunter's a hunter, no matter if you were Captain America'd by mages or brought up the good old-fashioned way. Universes be damned.

One or two less each time sounds familiar, too. That's the life.

He doesn't comment on that, nor on the (extremely satisfying) fuck-up of form. Instead: )

Who's Vesemir?

( Context clues say Papa Witcher, but a little confirmation couldn't hurt. )

[ Geralt folds his arms while he waits for Dean to take his turn; mulls over how he wants to answer.

Complicated is what he wants to say. The one survivor after the massacre. He's only mentioned the mob once in passing and there isn't much else to add beyond humans wiped most of us out. Now there's Vesemir, stragglers left behind. And out of the four, two of them remain.

Maybe one now. If he's here, in this world, then does he count as one of the remaining? ]

Oldest known Witcher. Taught us everything after the others fell. Actually fed us. [ A dark edge of humour to the remark. He tops off his glass; tops off Dean's, as well. ] He's around.

[ For clarification. Since Jaskier assumed Vesemir was dead once when Geralt mentioned him. Not an unfair assumption, given the lives of Witchers. ]

( Taught us everything, actually fed us.

He offers Geralt an appreciative sup nod as he tops off the drink. Takes a second to sip at it before he makes his throw, just because. After a certain point, drinking games stop being about the rules and start being a thing you do while drinking. Such is the way of drunk-life. )

I had one of those. ( He muses after a swallow, gently thunking the glass back down again. A Vesemir — by any other name. Not hard to clock the fondness. ) Crotchety old son of a bitch practically knew everything about everything. Bobby. That's his place across the street.

( Finally, all his procrastinating done, he throws his knife. It doesn't hit the board so much as sort of wedge itself between a cluster of them — no spin, but also no thunk. Did the damn thing even make it to the wood?

A contemplative beat, and then he points defiantly at Geralt before he can say anything. )

That counts.

[ Had. The look on Geralt's face suggests he hasn't missed that particular note, but he isn't asking after it, either. He can guess what happened.

He can see it. The rundown bar here, the yard full of scraps and metal across the road. Reminds him of the scattered bones outside the keep, the crumbling walls within. They're not the prettiest of views, but home is home. ]

Mm. [ Funny. That's what they say about him now. Old bastard who spends his time keeping idiots from burning shit down. Knows too fucking much about everything. Vesemir raised all of them, shaped every one of them, but in more than one sense, Geralt might've turned out most like him. ] And how often did you make him tan your hide?

[ A faint squint to his eyes as he studies where in the hell Dean's knife even landed. He was taking a sip when it flew and enough liquor has entered him that he can't recall what the board looked like a second ago.

He waits a few more seconds, a minute. When the dagger does not drop: ] Fuck it.

[ He'll give it a pass. Mostly because he suspects it'll be his turn to argue the finer point of what counts in the near future. The next one does strike neatly into black—though he's lost track of whether that's his second for Dean to drink or the first of next round. Hard to tell when the board resembles a porcupine. He makes a gesture for Dean to drink, anyhow. ]

( How often did you make him tan your hide? He snorts, and lets that be an answer in and of itself. The truth is tanning his hide was always more his father's thing. Bobby had a different method of dressing him down; that goddamn I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed, except it was Bobby, so it was no actually I am pissed. It cut to the quick every time. Probably more effective than John Winchester's methods ever were.

He genuinely can't friggin' remember if Geralt got two in a row, if he screwed one up or if he's been nailing it even among that crowded board. He doesn't bother questioning it, he just drinks. As a wise man once said: fuck it. )

Nah, believe it or not, I did what I was told growing up. Followed orders. ( A accompanied by a little sway-shrug. How many spots are even left on this damn board anyhow? Two? Maybe? ) It was my little brother... man, that kid... Wrangling him was like herding cats into a paper bag.

( He throws a knife — it hits the hilt of another, clatters to the floor again, and he holds his hands up in surrender. )

Alright, I think you got me.

( He'll concede. From his vague, buzzed recollection he screwed the pooch more than Geralt did. There's no way he's sneaking in anymore. )

[ Yeah. That answers enough. So does I followed orders. That's the other end of it not many understand. When it's family, but there's an environment there, an expectation that you do as you're told. He's experienced both sides of it—that unyielding period before and after the Trials under an even older, more cantankerous Witcher, and the years afterwards under Vesemir. Still a hard bastard, but. One who gave a shit about more than if his boys could stand and lift a sword.

He half-perches on the table as Dean admits defeat. The curl of his lips is satisfied, not from the concession but from the entire event; it was something of a worthwhile competition, which he's not had a while. Winter at Kaer Morhen was...different, his most recent return. Between Ciri, Eskel, and here in this world—

He knows what he took on. He doesn't regret it. But he does miss it, a simpler time unwinding. ]

I know that feeling. [ Herding cats indeed. He exchanges the dagger in his hand for his glass. Only then does the blade Dean wedged in there a round or two ago finally drop, burying point down in the floors. Hm. Timely. ] Let me guess—fond of mouthing off and making it worse?

( The long, beleaguered exhale Dean sighs out in answer is clearer than a neon sign. He settles himself back atop his stool, drink in hand — no game necessary to have him sipping at it. )

Buddy, you don't even know the half of it. ( It's a lament, but honestly, it's more fond than anything. Damn, he misses his brother. Misses how simple things were back then too, though maybe not so much having to play mediator. ) Damn near every other thing was up for debate, if you asked him. You could stick him in a round room and he'd still somehow find a corner to argue with.

( In hindsight he may have been right about some of it, but catch him ever admitting that to Sam's face. )

You the oldest?

( Do you know his struggle? Join him in the early grave he'll be headed to from all those stress tumors of his youth. )

[ That's a sigh he's given before. He shifts atop the table entirely, hooks a foot around a chair and plants it on the scratched wooden seat. ]

Not by age. [ Functionally? He'd say as much. No one else was out there, dragging his brothers into getting things done around the keep. ] I'd hardly pledge myself as obedient. But I learned to pick my battles.

[ He gives a half-shrug. He's as stubborn as they come; he won't pretend he isn't. It's just been tempered with age, with a desire not to turn everything into a fight merely because it can be. He's never found a time when it helped. Not when they only have each other, when they're the few remaining. ]

Bitterness is the quickest monster to seed for those like us. [ It's a life none of them asked for, and it's one that can only ever lead to more losses. He knows how it is, to be surrounded by the people you love at the same time they remind you of all the things you never asked to become. (They may or may not be reaching that stage of inebriation that occasionally gives rise to sentiments Jaskier would call fucking maudlin.) ] For some, it never stops growing.

( His expression slips into something solemn as he listens, eyes settling down on the bar — but not actually looking at it. Reflecting, replaying, running through the mental list of every bitter hunter he ever met.

It's a common theme, but it's not as common as it seems to be with Witchers. He remembers Geralt briefly mentioning humans devastating his people — bitterness would practically be a given, he figures. )

I get that. God knows I've been there. Being bitter might be better than the alternative. Where I'm from, ninety-nine percent of the time people aren't raised into it. They start hunting after they lose somebody. That seed is mostly just... hate.

( You hate whatever brought you into the life, you hate that it took away someone you loved. Hate compels you to hunt it, but after you kill it, it doesn't actually fix anything. You still hate, so you carry that hatred on to the next hunt, and the next, and eventually you get a little blind to shades of grey. You ride that hate until it gets you dead.

He pulls his eyes up from the bar top again and levels them on Geralt, studying his expression. )

And what about you? Are you bitter?

[ Yeah. There's that, too. A bitterness that blooms into hate or fear or both. The humans did destroy most of his kind. But his own were not exactly innocent before or afterwards. It isn't that he thinks they deserve to be hated in turn—only a recognition that it all runs in a sort of cycle. He's thought, often, that humans told themselves Witchers felt nothing because they were afraid of what they would feel if they could.

His gaze flicks up, somehow a little surprised by the question. He studies Dean in return and wonders if that's what he saw in someone close to him. His father, wasn't it? That lost their mother to a demon? ]

I was. [ His answer comes without pause. It's something he accepted about himself a long time ago. ] I moved on.

[ Mostly. If he digs deep, it's still there. He's not certain it ever entirely goes away. ]

Besides, could be worse. Could've been assigned to a life sorting grain in some backwater hamlet.

[ There are few upsides to what they do, but it isn't entirely void of them. Most live and die where they're born. They don't get to hop on a horse and go see the mountains any time they want. ]

( His only answer initially is a thoughtful but unsurprised hum. He figured that might be the case — it's the same for him about that hate thing. He's had his moments of it, could have descended down that dark road, but managed to course-correct. He doesn't hunt out of hate, he doesn't kill monsters indiscriminately. His father, on the other hand...

Let's just say he wouldn't be too thrilled to learn about Cas or Benny. Or Geralt, for that matter.

Could've been assigned to a life sorting grain in some backwater hamlet.

That one earns a soft snort of a laugh. Funny how similar things are across universes — his consolation thought is could've been shoveling shit in the boonies. Not too far off.

Anyway, Jaskier would be right. They are getting a little sad sap here, so he pushes himself off his stool and claps a hand on Geralt's shoulder. )

Come on. Time to introduce you to Baby. Let's do this.

( The beauty of the Horizon: being able to immediately sober himself up a little before he gets behind the wheel. The second beauty: never losing his keys. They're in his hand by the time he reaches the driver's side door. )

Edited 2022-04-14 17:56 (UTC)

[ Geralt does not think twice about taking the half-empty bottle of whisky with him as he follows Dean out the door. It is not because he's a passenger; it's that the concept of going into a car less than sober is not one which Geralt holds any awareness of. He's mounted his horse drunk before, and he was hardly the first. Not like much happens as a Witcher except you take a bruise in a fall.

It also takes a hell of a lot more alcohol to bring him to a state where his reflexes are no longer fully functioning. As it is, he's loose and more prone to talking, but entirely steady.

The car sits sleek and shiny in the late afternoon sun. It's always caught his attention, the material. He remembers thinking as such, too, when he saw Amos' spaceship: the amount of metal and steel. To him, these remain expensive materials to mine and forge. Enough that it's startling to see it used in such large quantities.

He peers through the window. His remark is drier than the Cadens' desert. ] Does she speak?

[ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

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