abraxaslogs | EVENT #7: THE SIGHT

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EVENT #7: THE SIGHT

Event #7 - The Sight

go to the OOC event info and plotting post

The night before APRIL 18, your dreams are disrupted by a vivid image of the same eclipse that occurred last month. The black sun seems to be an endless void in the sky, growing ever darker - until it suddenly opens into an eye that stares straight at you.

When you wake up, much of your night seems a blur except for the vivid dream of that eye. Whether you find it unsettling or try to ignore it, the image is something you cannot get out of your mind. If you ask, you will discover that none of the locals of your faction saw another eclipse. Speak with your fellow Summoned, however, and you may learn that while there was no eclipse that formed over the world, you were not the only one who had this dream.

Of course, dreams don't need to mean anything. You can't feel or see any immediate effects, and nearly everyone around you is going about their day as usual. Maybe you should do the same.

The Awakening

It might happen that very morning or a day or two later. You could be discussing the dream with a fellow Summoned or perhaps you simply brush shoulders with them as you walk by. Whatever it is, as soon as you make brief physical contact, one of you is struck with a sharp pain in your temple that grows into a terrible headache. It's disorienting and painful as the world around you shifts to someplace you may or may not recognize. Like an old film reel, you watch the events of the past play out before you: the past of the other Summmoned. It might be something they would rather hide, a moment of failure or despair, or something they are immensely proud of and brings them great joy - or even a jumble of several images over the course of a person's life. But you see it as if it were real and right in front of you all the same. When you come to, you'll likely find yourself on the ground or bent over, possibly with one or more people around you to see if you're okay. It'll take you a bit to gather your bearings, and the subsequent pounding in your head could last from minutes to hours.

Or, maybe you aren't the one who receives the vision. Instead, as you watch, another Summoned might grasp their head and crumble in front of you. They may go silent or groan in pain. They'll be impossible to shake out of their stupor until it's over. If you ask what happened, they may be inclined to tell you the truth - that you, you were what happened to them.

Or, if your Arcana signs happen to line up in a specific way, you'll see each other in the shared memory itself. You may also find that for certain Summoned, you can help soothe the effects, calm their emotions, or help draw them out of the memory before it consumes them for too long. It's not entirely clear what determines which effect, but one thing is for certain - within each memory, every Summoned as they appear in the past seems to wear the mark of their Arcana somewhere on their person.

For some, they might experience this only once. For others, they might experience it multiple times: with the same person, with several other Summoned, or with a different memory each time. Over the next 7 days, you'll find the Summoned around you are all receiving a glimpse into each other's past, as if the Singularity has awoken an eye within each of you.

Flee for the safety of the Horizon if you want, but you'll find that in there, it's much the same. In fact, inside the Horizon, the other Summoned don't even need to be anywhere near you - just existing in the Horizon space itself together will be enough to possibly set off a headache-inducing vision.

The Factions

What has occurred between the Summoned will not go unnoticed within the factions. While it's difficult to say how faction officials have picked up what's happening, it'll be obvious they do know.

In THORNE, characters will be asked to remain in the castle walls until further notice. Characters will not be allowed to leave the castle grounds, not even to go into the surrounding city, and anyone who is already outside will be requested to not leave again as soon as they return. If asked, they will be told it's for their own safety, given the Singularity is behaving unpredictably and the Summoned have a unique connection to it. Soothing potions and healers are on hand to offer assistance, if anyone is particularly suffering from ill effects.

In the FREE CITIES, characters will find the army by the outposts show more activity than usual. A higher number of guards will patrol the streets throughout the event, particularly in areas frequented by the Summoned. Anyone who publicly and visibly experiences the effects of the memory share (pain, doubling over, etc.) will be offered assistance by the guards. They are generally there to help, but they are also there to maintain order and ensure anyone behaving erratically due to this incident is properly contained. This might include confinement for a day or two if anyone is especially posing a risk, but no one will be punished except in the most extreme cases, as the locals are aware this is not within the control of the Summoned.

In SOLVUNN, the locals will be watching what's happening with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Host families and neighbors will be on hand to help with charms meant to offer protection, as well as general care and assistance (soup, blankets, and so on) if your character seems to be especially under the weather or afflicted by the event. Towards the end of the event, more elders and mages will be out and about to check up on the Summoned to make sure they're doing okay. If asked, the mages will say they aren't sure what's going on, but that they are currently divining with the gods and hope to have a definitive answer soon in the upcoming days.

None of the factions appear to be doing much more than keep a watchful eye on the situation - but as the week comes to a close, officials will start making a decision as to what they want to do and how to handle the Summoned who have demonstrated this unforeseen connection to the Singularity.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( They're both affected on a level neither of them are particularly keen to admit — unbelievably similar and yet completely different on a hell of a lot of levels. This isn't the type of thing you can grass is always greener, you can't quantify better or worse here, but there's something especially horrifying about the association between Hell and childhood. Now that he's out, now that he can smell clean (well... cleaner) air, now that the screams have mostly faded from his ears, he can make that connection.

Kids. He went through hell as a freaking child.

That's a foundational thing, and over a hundred years old. Can't be easy having that yanked up to the forefront.

Not that it's easy for him either, but he's completely built to set aside his own emotional baggage in favor of handling someone else's. It's a coping mechanism to squash his problems by taking care of somebody — and for as difficult to read as Geralt might be, he's uniquely qualified to know.

He reaches out to settle a hand on the guy's shoulder, and gives it a firm squeeze. )

Hey. Deep breath.

( You're out. You're good. )

Edited 2022-04-22 12:43 (UTC)

[ Funny. Geralt's so used to being the one in this role instead; it's all he's done, here and in recent memory back home. Swallowing everything down because people needed him but also because it was easier to shoulder everyone else's problems—easier to let them drown out his own. But Dean gets there first, and he suddenly isn't sure how to react. Part of him freezes for a moment. As though he's neither willing to acknowledge that he is unsettled, bothered too deeply, nor wanting to brush off someone who is, at this point, undeniably a friend. (A good friend, he might even say, which is not category he grants many.)

He breathes. Carefully moves to the side and into the tavern, now that he's realized they've stumbled into each other by the entrance. ]

Fine. [ He's fine. It's instinct to turn the focus away from himself, a wall that slides up. He peers at Dean. ] You?

[ He might be reminded of things he would rather keep contained, but Dean was actually in it. Seeing it. And neither of them are fine in that strictest sense, but that isn't what's being asked. It's a I can function, for now sort of fine. A There isn't need to dwell on it. Because there isn't. It serves no purpose. Maybe later, he'll let it sink in some more, when it's quiet and he's up at night instead of sleeping. He doesn't know. It's not quite the same as having the actual memory physically torn from the depths of his mind, but the fact that that happened not too long ago doesn't help. Like every time he thinks he's managed to push it back down, something happens to force it back up. ]

( Pot, meet kettle. Like for like. )

Nope. ( He returns bluntly, offering Geralt's shoulder another firm squeeze before his hand drops away. ) That sucked ass.

( We're not sugar coating it. In the same beat, he turns his attention toward whoever's manning the bar and raises a hand. )

Yep. No, just gimme the bottle.

( They know what he drinks by now, he's got enough of a rapport here that there aren't really any questions asked. One gets plunked down and slid toward him, put directly on his running tab. )

Upstairs.

( That one's directed at Geralt — could be taken either as an offer for him to join, or flatly informing him of where Dean's headed. Either way. He's just not all that keen on being around strangers, people, the general population of randos he doesn't trust right now. Not after that. Too jumpy, too raw, too disinclined to be touched by anybody even in passing. )

[ That draws a soft grunt out of him. Sucked ass is a sentiment he can get behind. He slides a few coins over for his own bottle. Something tells him they each need one. He isn't interested in being around people, either—strangers or otherwise. Seems easier to stay with someone who doesn't require an explanation about what happened, about what weighs heavy on his mind. The last thing he wants to do is talk about it.

He'd have almost preferred Dean saw the start of the Grasses than the days in its aftermath. At least there's something to be said about the process. About how it arose. Afterwards was only—well. That.

The bottle's uncorked with his teeth as he follows up the steps. He's yet to enter Dean's place; they've only ever met in taverns or in the desert. At Sam's. He isn't certain what to expect, but he has some idea. The more he's come to know Dean, the more he realizes Witcher or human, hunters are hunters. Some things are universal. Geralt's home only looks remotely lived in because of Jaskier and Rinwell. Ciri, somewhat. (She hung a fanged skull up, but it's a contribution to the decorations. It counts. She killed it herself and he will not let anyone take it down.)

The door swings open. He steps inside; peers up at the ceiling when he tips the bottle back. ] Hm.

( Dean's place is, perhaps surprisingly, quite neat. The bed is crisply made and the bought, borrowed, or stolen books are stacked neatly on his small table. He has a small but organized arsenal strategically placed — rifle by the bed, daggers within grabbing distance of the table, a few carved wooden stakes and assorted other weaponry that no single person really ought to have for any sane reason — and yet. What's sanity, anyway? Completely overrated.

On the floor, probably familiar by now, a scored devil's trap that's surely coming out of his coin purse when he moves out. Also around the room, various oddities of the hunting variety. A glass jug sits with a cheap, commissioned rosary floating within. Strange symbols carved discreetly into walls. Containers of strange herbs. Pencilled notes about hunts and monsters.

And now the newest addition: that big ass liquor bottle, which he uncorks and drinks out of directly without bothering to reach for a glass. )

If you got questions, you might as well just get 'em out now.

( About any of that, about what he saw. Better now than bringing it up again later, if he's curious enough to try. Cauterize that wound while it's fresh and open. )

[ The variety of weaponry is the main difference between them. Geralt keeps his sword on hand, one or two knives, and that's roughly it. On rare occasions, if he's hunting something especially specific, he might add more. Out here, though, most things are taken care of with a bit of sharp steel.

Weapons, and the symbols. He's gathered by now symbology has more presence in Dean's world than his own, but Dean seems to encounter entities more than monsters.

He finds a seat on the nearest surface—the edge of a table, a trunk, something—and lets his gaze settle on Dean. Has he got questions? Yes. He does. Who would not? But there's a difference between wanting answers and needing them. He's learned there's more to uncover in the things that are said unprompted, anyway, than questions laid out all at once. At the end of the day, Dean is a friend—not a mystery he's hired to solve. ]

Your past is yours. [ The bottle dangles between his fingers. ] If there's nothing you feel I need to know, then we've no need to talk of it.

Edited 2022-05-16 04:06 (UTC)

( Strange as it probably sounds, that last statement earns Geralt a laugh. It's not a good one — and it is one singular, quietly huffed and sardonic. Self-deprecating, actually, because his knee-jerk reaction to something I need to know is a voice in the back of his mind dumping half a dozen dark thoughts in a split second. Yeah, he should probably know Dean's a soul-torturing killer and people around him wind up dead, he should probably have a little fair warning so he can steer clear before they get any more buddy buddy than they are. He should probably know that not too long after the memory Geralt just saw, he climbed off that rack and threw somebody else on it. Probably wouldn't be so loosey-goosey with that understanding then.

All of it in a moment, in a pang — one he processes by bringing the bottle up to his lips again instead of saying a damn word just yet.

He swallows both, compartmentalizes, and shoves on. )

People don't go to hell for no reason. ( Is what he ultimately decides on — it's leading to a point, not the point itself. ) I made my bed. You didn't. You were a kid. For what it's worth... the guy that came out the other side of it could've been a hell of a lot worse.

( Torture at such a formative age... Aside from being remarkable that Geralt survived at all, maybe more impressive is that he did it without becoming a baby eating puppy kicking sociopath. He came out a good guy. He respects a little more now that he's had a first-hand glimpse of the process. )

Edited 2022-05-17 23:24 (UTC)

[ He more than recognizes that sound. Geralt studies Dean with an inscrutable look. He can gather by now what's meant by hell, the way Dean says it. A place where people asked for it. It's a concept Geralt grasps on the most objective level. Reminds him of Nadine asking him if he believes in fate, that people get what they deserve in the end. As though the world judges every soul accordingly instead of everything being bullshit. ]

We can all be worse. [ It hardly takes being dealt a shit hand for that. There are pampered kings who have slaughtered villages. Fathers who sell their children. He could be worse. He could be better. Though really, in whose eyes are they counting? Because the men he's killed—perhaps to someone else, they were good men. Perhaps they have children, waiting. In the end, it is what it is, the choices he makes, for his own reasons. If he can live with them, that's enough.

He takes a drink. Turns a few thoughts over in his head. It isn't difficult to read between the lines. He gets it. He's carried his own regrets, but they are regrets he's learned to accept as part of him. This is heavier. Weighted different.

He thinks he's come to know Dean by now, that he isn't wrong when he asks not what, but specifically, ] Who was your reason?

( God damn but Geralt hits a bullseye with that one. There's a period of about two seconds where Dean looks a little taken aback, but it melts into a kind of resignation. Lips pull up on one side, but there isn't much humor to be found in what fits the technical definition of a smile. He turns his eyes down to the bottle in his hand, absently rotating the thing so the contents sway in a tiny little whirlpool around on the inside. )

My brother.

( He doesn't see any point in denying it, no real desire to. No real reason. Credit where it's due, Geralt's got him pegged. )

He, ah... ( There's a short pause, a soft sticking at the back of his throat. ) He died.

( Which doesn't seem like enough of a justification — people die every day, he knows. They both know. The line of work they're in, the life they live, they see death every day.

It's just- )

Taking care of him was my job. My one thing. I screwed up, so. I fixed it. Made a deal. Sold my soul. Brought him back, and then...

( A more pointed click with his mouth - tch. Lights out. )

Edited 2022-05-19 04:38 (UTC)

[ Half of it is to do with Dean; the other half is too much time spent peeling back what it is that lead people where they go. And it's about who more often than not. A dying wife, a husband with a wandering eye, a lost child.

A brother.

His expression softens. Yeah. That'll do it. He doesn't live in a world where you can trade for a death. People have tried. It's how curses and twisted abominations are born. But Dean's sphere seems to function more loosely where the dead are concerned, and he wonders if it's because no one in it truly dies. It sounds more, they are taken to another realm of existence by the entities which guard it. A bit like...hm. The Wild Hunt. Their stories, in any case, which he's come to realize may not all be myth alone. A soul, whisked away by the riders for eternity. It's been said by some they can be amenable to trading one soul for another. Should the stars align.

Maybe what catches Geralt's attention more is that Dean calls it his job. That he fixed it. As though—the duty of it outweighs the simple matter of his brother being his family. Of being someone he cared about. ]

He was important to you. [ Not a question. Geralt is certain there's more to the story—there always is—but he senses it's one that will come in pieces. ]

He is.

( An agreement and a correction in one — just so they're clear that Sam is still alive. It worked. He might not go so far as to say it was worth it, considering what he brought onto the world as a result when he picked up that knife, but it worked out. It wasn't for nothing. )

Haven't seen him in about a year and a half thanks to Purgatory and now here, but... Yeah.

( Doesn't really matter. Doesn't change his priorities. )

That's why we need to figure out what the hell's going on with this world. Find out how to stop them from sucking people into it, and how to bounce back home.

( He's still got a job to do. )

[ He really goes places, doesn't he. Geralt makes a vague noise, willing to let the topic rest for now. He's not keen to dwell on what he saw. It's uncomfortably close to home.

Though on the matter of home.

His gaze flicks up. ] I'm not returning.

[ It's a decision he made a few months ago. He isn't the only one. Not all of them have a sphere intact to go home to. He does—he's leaving people behind—but the relief on Ciri's face when he had told her they could stay here tells him he made the right choice.

He still suspects she holds a key to it. If they can unlock her Elder Blood, she can open multiple doors through the Singularity. It's what she does. It's of no consequence; he won't allow it. The risk is too high. Her abilities remain unpredictable, especially here where the strengthened flow of chaos destabilizes her magic further. The Wild Hunt will undoubtedly sense her then. To him, there's no situation in which he'll let anyone use her—Summoned or otherwise. But he knows how people are when they're desperate, when they think they've found an answer to their problems. Not even his closest people here are aware of the truth. The sole person he's told is Jaskier. The others, they can do as they will to seek their road home, so long as it doesn't put her or this sphere in danger. But his priorities are elsewhere. ]

And I doubt there's a way to place us directly back on the path we were pushed off.

( For a long moment, Dean studies Geralt's expression. Making the choice to stay... if he spends any time thinking about it, it doesn't hit him as too surprising. Based on what he knows about Geralt's world, about the way Witchers are treated, he can't say he blames the guy.

But Geralt seems like he's past the point of giving a shit about that, doesn't he? There's something else there. )

You do what you gotta do. ( He's not judging the decision. To each their own. ) But path or no path, I'm going back.

( There's conviction, and then there's that, the way Dean delivers it. It's with the solemn certainty of something that just is, no bravado, no ego, but wholly confident.

He's gotten out of Purgatory, Heaven, Hell, and a dozen other impossible situations. This ain't the craziest one he's been through. He'll get out of this, too.

Since he's an irreverent son of a bitch that loves to break up serious moments with stupid commentary: )

And since I'm taking Cas with me, I guess that means you get to keep my magic dream bar. ( He points the neck of the bottle at Geralt sternly. ) Absolutely no lutes. I'll come straight back here and kick your ass if somebody lutes in my bar.

Mm. [ He doesn't add more. For someone explicitly not interested in going home, he's looked into it a fair amount—gateways opening constantly between worlds isn't ideal. The Singularity can bring people in. He suspects it can also keep things out. And humans have got a tendency to fuck with what they don't understand. Usually to dire consequences.

It's complicated, though. He hardly expects anyone to be content with remaining trapped where they didn't ask to be. Especially if they have people—family.

He huffs quietly, shifting his bottle to his other hand. Later, maybe, he will consider what it means that past Castiel, Dean's thoughts turn to him. ]

That's between you and the bard. [ If Jaskier wants to bring a lute in, no threat will dissuade him. ] I haven't successfully told him to fuck off for two decades.

[ Well. He succeeded one time, but that's. They aren't talking about that. It's not the best moment in his life. ]

( Dean doesn't have a lot of people here. Frankly, Dean doesn't have a lot of people in general — funny how it seems like they all wind up dead, it's no wonder he's collected progressively fewer of them as time has gone on.

Sam, Cas, and Benny — except only one of the three exists here.

But the thing is... Dean wasn't designed to be that way. That's not how his core operates, whether he likes it or not. In an ideal world, he'd have a family. He'd collect them, hoard them, have god damn barbeques and movie nights. He will always innately, subconsciously want people to be loyal to. In certain specific situations, he gives that loyalty hard and fast. Geralt's at the top of his (very short) list of people he trusts here, and no matter how hard a part of him points out it's a bad idea, no matter how much he knows better than to get close to people, that core trait is just too god damn prominent.

So the long and short of it is, yeah, Geralt's second in line to get his crap if he dies or bails.

Haven't successfully told him to fuck off- He huffs out a soft laugh, right on the cusp of bringing the bottle back to his lips.

Debates asking.

What the hell, they're already knee-deep in this screwed up mire, might as well. )

What's so bad about home? Why the permanent relocation?

[ That he's chosen to make Abraxas home is not technically a secret, though in typical fashion, he's told only a small handful. Mostly those close enough to him for it to be relevant. Dean makes the fourth, fifth, or so.

He leans forward, arms on his knees. ] Ciri is the sole heir to one of the largest kingdoms. Her status could turn the war's tide.

[ That's half of the truth. The half he's willing to divulge. There are other reasons she's being pursued, reasons he doesn't fully understand himself. Ciri has tried her best to explain, but she's just as uncertain over some things and in this world, he hasn't any place to look for answers. All he knows is, given half the chance, some will chase her across realms and time. The Singularity appears to be the only thing shielding her—a fact he suspects is due to it being an equal if not more powerful source of chaos than she is.

It means it isn't only to do with the Continent being unsafe for her. It's that the nature of this sphere, in particular, affords her protection no other world has. One that relies on the Singularity standing, if he's right.

He doesn't give a fuck about these territories posturing over the monolith. But he does care about whether or not it remains a fixture of this world. ]

( Ciri is absolutely not a child, and he's full-on watched her punk him out by slaying two monsters at once before he could even cover the distance between them. That being said, she's still young, and to Dean anybody that looks 25 or lower qualifies as a kid.

He spends a moment speechless, but somehow his posture and demeanor are loud about his immediate indignation. After his two seconds of communicating through aggressive Dean Sign Language, he finally makes words. )

I- I feel like I'm beating a dead horse over here, but- she's a kid.

( That's a lot to shove onto somebody's shoulders in general, let alone somebody who probably couldn't legally rent a car back where he's from. )

No offense, Geraldo, but your world blows massive dicks. Just- acres of dicks. Probably a good call sticking around.

[ She is not a young girl any longer, no. Unlike Dean, Geralt does not consider her one. He's accepted she grew up. She can more than take care of herself. More than keeping her safe through his hands, he'd wanted that for her: that she learn to trust in her own strength. He won't always be here to protect her. There's no changing that reality.

But though she may not be a child, she is still his child. ]

She was fleeing when I found her. [ Dean's indignation is met with a shrug of a shoulder. That's how things are. Kingdoms will either want her for a marriage or they want her dead to get her out of the way. Which it is at this point, he doesn't care. He's handing her over to no one. She's not a pawn to be passed around for every bastard's ambition. ] She deserves the choice.

[ And Ciri has made hers. She wants to kill monsters, she wants to be a Witcher. She wants nothing to do with empires or prophecies. She deserves a home, here, where she can stop running for once. He's determined to make one for her.

He brings the bottle to his lips. He studies Dean for a moment. ] If your brother were here—would you do the same?

( It's probably a stark contrast to his answer a second ago that he falters. Not an instantaneous yes like he'd have expected from himself — a flicker of doubt, where he asks himself the same question. On the one hand, it's not like he has anybody else to go back to. Bobby's gone. Benny probably never made it through the portal. Cas is here. He hasn't exactly had a good life where he's from, and hunting here is... simple. No angels, no demons, no politics — at least none involving him. It's like the best parts of Purgatory in its simplicity, where monsters are just monsters, he kills them, he gets paid, he goes home.

At first, the biggest counter-point is just technology and convenience. Hell yeah he misses daytime TV and fast food. Might miss them enough to go back for it, but it's a more evenly split decision than he'd have expected.

And then he remembers his unfinished business back home, the word of God and the prophet that can read it stuck with the king of hell, and his light seems to dim a little. Decision reached, but it's with resignation rather than certainty. Dutiful fatigue. )

Nah. ( He says it with his chin tipping down, eyes on his bottle without really seeing it. Scrubs a hand over his face. ) No, I gotta go... clean up a mess before it becomes too big to clean. That's if shit hasn't already hit the fan while I've been gone, I guess. Only one way to find out.

[ It's the type of question he expects nothing from one way or another: a dismissive shrug, a joke, or a more genuine answer. Dean opts for the last. Once, it might have surprised him. It no longer does. They've shared enough between each other. What's one more?

The pause says more than Dean's answer. ] They can't find someone else?

[ Wry, gently prodding. A mess. Something in particular. Something Dean feels responsible for? Perhaps. He does understand. He feels like—he's turned his back on his people. Staying here. But he knows there's nothing of his kind to preserve.

The world doesn't need them. When the last of them die out, it will move on with barely a glance back. ]

( That question earns a soft laugh, more than a little tired, and his eyes roll to the ceiling. )

Buddy... believe me, if there was anybody else...

( He'd- what, retire or something? Stay here? Doesn't matter, the point is someone else doesn't exist. He'd love to feel like the world didn't need him anymore. He'd love to believe it would keep turning safely on. He'd especially love to not feel responsible for whatever life-threatening tomfuckery is happening at any given time, but more often than not he is.

The Kevin thing, the tablet thing... that's on him, too.

Not that he intends to go into the whole story, but just to get an idea on how much context he'd have to give if he wanted to try-- )

How much do you know about religion, Gerald? Heaven, Hell, the big guy upstairs?

[ Some time ago—not particularly long ago—Geralt might've said that's the arrogance of men. That they believe there's no one else who can do what they can. But he's seen more since. Learned different.

There's no one like Ciri, either.

He tips back the bottle before he answers. ] Don't tell me. Fate and prophecies?

[ Destiny? He knows fuck all about heaven and hell beyond what he's gleaned from those he's spoken to. Christmas was explained to him and he still hasn't much of a clue what it is. (Other than that a lamb is involved, and a virgin.)

But he needn't know the specifics. Humans can call it what they want: religion, fate, destiny, a fucking golden rainbow. It all tends to come down to the same thing. A force that follows you. Pushes and pulls you along a path. Tells you what you were made for. He's started to make his peace, with what it is to be tangled up with Destiny. Doesn't mean he likes it. ]

( The answer surprises him a little — or maybe amuses him, some combination of the two. He clicks his teeth, shakes his head once in an unspoken, well, you're not wrong. )

Yeah, something like that.

( It wasn't exactly an I'm a man of the cloth kind of answer, which means there's no point in him going into any detail on any of it. He'd have to probably ramble out a novel to cover a single base, and after the day they've had...

Maybe some other time.

He'll keep it high level. )

I, uh... I screwed up somebody's apocalypse, and it's just been one thing after another ever since. Honestly, man, I'm starting to wonder... ( If the world just wants to end, If maybe he's just postponing the inevitable. Sounds a hell of a lot like him stroking his own self-pity boner, though, so he shakes his head instead. Jumps tracks. ) Doesn't matter. The point is, my world sucks, your world sucks, this world sucks a little harder after that whole non-consensual memory bang thing, so we should all get some hookers, shotgun a beer, and take a nap until this whole thing blows over.

[ Something like that. Yeah. Between himself, Nadine, Alucard, now Dean—how many of them haven't had some sort of predestined horseshit circle them like vultures?

He huffs a quiet noise. Nearly says, Welcome aboard. Enjoy being swept along by Destiny, where most of it led you into shit your whole life but then you have...moments. People. (A girl, who becomes everything.) Dean fucked up someone's apocalypse, whatever that means (how can the end of the world belong to a person?); Ciri is supposedly the harbinger of one. He doesn't know anymore. He's damn tired.

He takes another drink. Wonder what? His gaze is fixed on Dean. The answers don't tell him much, in truth. Not beyond that Dean appears caught up in his own swirl of fate. What specifically does heaven and hell mean to Dean, when he knows the latter is a real place where the other spent a portion of his years? When that's where Geralt entered alongside him just earlier? What happened afterwards? There are a dozen blank spaces. More.

But Geralt's offered far less about what Dean saw from him in return. Hasn't clarified anything about the Trials. So he doesn't press. ]

I've been trying to have a nap for a hundred years. [ Ask him how that's going. ] Seems we're short on those in any world.

Edited 2022-05-24 06:53 (UTC)

( He snorts softly — yeah, he knows that feeling. Actually, it might be more accurate to say he's been trying to sleep for what feels like a hundred years, and all he gets are naps. Four hours every day or so most of the time, if he's lucky.

He's so tired, on so many friggin levels. There's a somber, quiet pause that he eventually breaks rather abruptly. )

Wellp. ( He grunts, lifting the bottle in a small salute. ) Here's to dying tired. It's been real, it's been fun, but it ain't been real fun.

( He drinks.

Which, coincidentally, is what he does for the next several hours — whether Geralt sticks around for it or not. )

(no subject)

gynvael - 2022-05-28 02:56 (UTC) - Expand

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