Geralt z Rivii (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gynvael) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2021-07-04 01:42 pm
gynvael) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-07-04 01:42 pm
Entry tags:
( CLOSED )
Who: Geralt + Jaskier
When: Before the July event
Where: the castle // dungeons
What: A bardish visit, part 2.
Warnings: N/A
[ Time passes both quickly and not at all down here—but out of everything, it's the continued allowance of visits that surprises him. He's been waiting for security to tighten, for the guards to begin disposing of prisoners, for something to change. So far, nothing has. It leaves him uneasy, but it does mean he has a chance to bide his time while Jaskier is above.
He's been avoiding dwelling on the princess. It's been, what. Four weeks? Just about. A long time for a girl to run from an army. It's easier to simply accept there's no longer anything to go back for. The thought leaves a bitter taste, but he's not about to hang his hopes on fanciful hopes. On Destiny. Besides, what's one more regret amongst a pile of others?
Time to move on. Put his focus on other matters that need more pressing attention, here and now.
His leg, at least, is steadily healing. Not quickly; not getting worse, either. It's about all he can expect. He's seated on the ground where he often is, preferring its flat hard surface to the lumpy, scratchy bed, which he only just barely fits into. Geralt's got half a bun in his mouth—the same one he's been eating for weeks, every day, and even he's getting fucking bored of the same damn meal by now—when Jaskier appears out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't turn around, but it's clear he notices the bard, his eyes sliding ever so slightly in Jaskier's direction before he turns back to his food. There's a vague Mmm that passes for a greeting. ]
When: Before the July event
Where: the castle // dungeons
What: A bardish visit, part 2.
Warnings: N/A
[ Time passes both quickly and not at all down here—but out of everything, it's the continued allowance of visits that surprises him. He's been waiting for security to tighten, for the guards to begin disposing of prisoners, for something to change. So far, nothing has. It leaves him uneasy, but it does mean he has a chance to bide his time while Jaskier is above.
He's been avoiding dwelling on the princess. It's been, what. Four weeks? Just about. A long time for a girl to run from an army. It's easier to simply accept there's no longer anything to go back for. The thought leaves a bitter taste, but he's not about to hang his hopes on fanciful hopes. On Destiny. Besides, what's one more regret amongst a pile of others?
Time to move on. Put his focus on other matters that need more pressing attention, here and now.
His leg, at least, is steadily healing. Not quickly; not getting worse, either. It's about all he can expect. He's seated on the ground where he often is, preferring its flat hard surface to the lumpy, scratchy bed, which he only just barely fits into. Geralt's got half a bun in his mouth—the same one he's been eating for weeks, every day, and even he's getting fucking bored of the same damn meal by now—when Jaskier appears out of the corner of his eye.
He doesn't turn around, but it's clear he notices the bard, his eyes sliding ever so slightly in Jaskier's direction before he turns back to his food. There's a vague Mmm that passes for a greeting. ]
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[Not that it's anything to hold against him. It's simply... the way Geralt is. The way people react to him.
Jaskier moves to the edge, folding his legs underneath him. He rubs all his fingers together, warming them, and gives Geralt a companionable clap on the shoulder.]
Now, I've been practicing, but don't expect any miracles. [Of course Geralt would never think so highly of him. He covers the wound with a hand gently -- healing, but not healed -- drawing on his magic. The bird above them gives a chirp and pops like a bubble. He may have been practicing, but two things at once is a lot.
There's not much of an interesting visual. His hand warms, and a slight glow, as the magic waves through Geralt's skin.
He nods to himself. Not bad at all, Lord Pankratz.] Rather impressive, wouldn't you say? No, say nothing. I understand. A bard doing magic is breathtaking.
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Hmm. Hard to say how he feels. It concerns him, if there's a hidden cost to the magic Jaskier has found. Or perhaps the cost is simply that they're stuck here. ]
You have been learning. [ It might not sound like praise; from Geralt, though, it's nearly so.
He looks over to where the bird once was. All this talk of magic and mages. Yen always did like her birds. He wants...he's not sure what he wants. Some quiet in his mind, maybe. He'd found that with her. When things were calm, anyway. Fuck. As much as he's tried to separate it all, taking one problem at a time, it's beginning to feel crowded. A heavy weight he can't shake.
His fingers dip into the water, tracing a small circle on the surface as he tries to bring his thoughts to more practical concerns. ] How far does Thorne's territory expand?
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[He pats Geralt's leg, letting him lower it. Not healed completely, but certainly better. He'll have to see how he walks from here on. Hopefully with no limp.] You're welcome.
[He's thankful Geralt survived the bite. And the sooner it's gone, the sooner they can worry about other things.
Jaskier moves behind Geralt. If he's not going to bloody bathe himself right, Jaskier will help. It won't be the first time, and it's an ease he sinks into because this, at least, is so fucking simple. He grabs the soap, pulling Geralt close to the edge so he can start rubbing it into his dirty hair.
They don't even let them bathe. Monstrous.]
Well, it's a kingdom, and from what I can tell, a powerful one, so it's bloody big. From what I remember of the maps, there's a few outlaying towns on the edges. Something perhaps a few days away by horse? Hopefully?
[It's all guesswork, really. He hadn't memorized any maps when other things had been more pertinent.] I'll see if I can sketch a copy.
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[ Jaskier does not do nothing. Jaskier is always doing something, and half the time that something tends to be a decision that stirs shit up. He could only wish that Jaskier would occasionally choose to sit and do nothing. Or rather, right now, he wishes Jaskier has the option to do so. Geralt needs him, though. Out of everyone here, there's no one else trusts. Not in the same way.
He makes an irritated sound when Jaskier snatches the soap right out of his hand. His eyes roll upward, but he lets it happen. Not the first time Jaskier has gotten fed up with Geralt's coarseness when it comes to untangling his own hair. (Geralt sees no reason why he shouldn't put speed and efficiency over grace. He's also not about to provoke yet another expansive lecture on it from the bard.) ]
No. [ A physical copy, if found even on a guest, might lead to conclusions he's not sure he wants. Especially not when they know full well Jaskier has a prisoner he's currently interested in appealing to free. ] Take me to the library next time. Tell them I'm there to carry your tomes. I'll take a look when we're in your chambers.
[ He only needs a glance. It'll be enough to start orienting himself to what's out there beyond some mountains to the north. ]
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Well. He could certainly make it sound completely true. It wasn't a lie.]
Oh, you're so terribly paranoid. Fine. The next time, in lieu of a bath, we'll take a turn in the library instead.
[One could so easily get annoyed to imply that he is, apparently, too weak or lazy to carry a book, yet... he knows nobles well. It's not an unfair request.
He cups water into his hands and dumps it over Geralt's head.] There's a woman. Quietly pretty, brunette hair. Her name is Belle. She's been sneaking things to the prisoners. [Another dump of water.] If you need a bit more food and I can't get to you, she could help. But be nice. She was cursed once, and the lady doesn't need any of your nonsense.
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Forgive me for not wanting either of us to lose our hands.
[ Water pours over him midsentence. He spits it out with furrowed brows. Fuck. He needs a drink. Several drinks. Wait, what woman? He looks over his shoulder, studying Jaskier for a moment before turning away. He's not certain he wants an additional face at his cell—he has plenty as it is (two is plenty)—but he gets what Jaskier is saying.
He'll keep her in mind. ]
And what other new friends have you been making?
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[So far. There's a certain emphasis for that. And he isn't afraid -- okay, scratch that, he's very afraid, but he thinks -- hopes, fuck -- that that won't stop him from helping Geralt where he needs to.
So far, fortune smiles upon him. Much less so on Geralt, which seems to be a running theme.
Jaskier splashes his face just to annoy him this time, then dips his hands in water to get the rest of the soap washed off. He shakes them dry, patting against his trousers.] Plenty of them, thank you. But I only trust her because she admitted it to me first. [He shrugs. All right, and she's very pretty. And he feels a certain kinship with her, having been cursed. The djinn nearly killing him was not necessarily a curse, but it may as well have been one.]
There's others besides me that want the prisoners freed. A staggering amount, actually. Apparently they made quite a mistake, summoning so many sympathetic fools.
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—What the fuck. Geralt's brows draw downward as water splashes right in his face. He gives Jaskier a smack in the arm. Idiot. ]
Ambrose seems amenable in rare cases. [ Those that have left the dungeon aren't many, but still more than Geralt would've expected. He's been considering what that means. Do they need them? Is that why they've been held until now? Because the mage wanted an excess pool of resources on the chance the welcomed guests didn't all work out?
It would've been simple, after all, to have gotten rid of the mistakes immediately. The guests would've never known better.
Speaking of making friends. ]
When they sent us to the mines, there were guests who came. Spent the week with one. [ He looks over at Jaskier. ] Room 3. Sam Wilson.
[ He doesn't need to say much more than that; Jaskier knows there are few he considers worth talking to. Sam is...he's not ready to use trustworthy or friend. Dependable, maybe, is the word he's looking for. ]
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Fuck. Already he misses traveling. There's certainly a difference between being trapped somewhere and rooming up in Oxenfurt for the winter.]
Ah. You mean the prisoners scurrying about? One can only wonder how you, too, haven't earned that sort of favor.
[It's a light prodding. He can't help himself. So far, there's so little humor to be found. Well, considering that urchin had weaseled her way to the festival and Geralt hadn't was a bit humorous.]
Oh. Guests? Hm. [He raises his brows, moving aside to a cushion, crossing his legs. Oh. Oh. That thing they'd offered him. When he'd first gotten here. As if the first thing he would want to do was run off to the middle of fucking nowhere. And some madman had agreed?]
Sam? You're making friends without me now? Marvelous! This is quite the development. [He tips his head, considering that. Geralt does not recommend people. Er, ever. So this is a development.] I'll make sure to strike up an invigorating conversation with him, then. And what could he have possibly done to earn a somewhat glowing review from you?
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Fuck off. [ He levels narrowed eyes in Jaskier's direction, as if to silently impress upon the bard the difference between a potential ally and a friend. ] We shared a drink. He seems to have the disposition needed to put up with all of your nonsense.
[ He's yet to tell Jaskier about the hallucinations down in the tunnels, nor the people who'd become unwitting witnesses to them. He doesn't plan to any time soon. Or ever, really, so long as it remains irrelevant. It's been dealt with, put aside, and he's even sleeping marginally better. So.
Besides, they both have more important concerns. ]
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[It no longer holds a shard of bitterness like it may have years ago. Instead, it's most certainly a prodding joke, with Jaskier meeting Geralt's glare with a smile. He won't say it -- neither of them will -- but it's good to see him out here, being annoying and gruff and himself. Recommending, apparently, other acquaintances.]
So you trust him enough that he won't stab me in the back. I appreciate it. [He throws a cloth to dry his face at Geralt's, er, face.] And where did you find enough respite to share a drink? [This time, Jaskier's gaze may actually be a bit scrutinizing. He knows the sort of things that has Geralt standing up for someone else. And those occasions are often monumental.] Did something happen? Another detail you've found no importance in telling me?
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[ His reply is dry, but not wholly without amusement. He wouldn't have wished for Jaskier to be here. That's the last thing he would've wanted, given the choice. But he can admit he's glad he's had the chance to talk to Jaskier before...
Before something happened. (He wants the same for Yennefer. Maybe it's for the best, though. What would he say to her? Would she even care to hear it?)
He catches the cloth, hauling himself out of the water. ]
Before they took us back. We had a few hours to rest. Guards were willing to look the other way. [ They're only guards, after all. A week in the tunnels, he imagines that final day, they'd just wanted to return home without trouble.
On the topic of trouble. He meets Jaskier's scrutiny with a look of his own, roughly drying himself off. There's nothing to talk about. Nothing that he wants to talk about. ] Drop it, Jaskier.
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Or, perhaps, if he's feeling particularly spicy, despite it. Even if Thorne itself has deigned to treat them as separate, instead of a package deal.
Which, of course, they are. Considering how much Geralt owes him.]
Ah, guards. Always so astute and dedicated to their craft. [Jaskier gives a huff, watching the White Wolf dry himself with all the grace of a three-legged horse. Still, one can't help but appreciate the sight -- and also examine him for more scars that he doesn't recognize (he knows them all, thank you.) Nothing he can tell, except scrapes on his hands, and that wound on his leg.
It's not healed completely, but it's far less red. More a delicate pink now.
Jaskier arches one delicate brow.] So something did happen, and you're bent on grousing about it in your head without sharing, which has proven to make things infinitely easier on a man's mind, which I am quite aware of through both personal experience and, oh, years of study. [And though it's certainly an admonishment, Geralt can do what he likes. As he always does. Even if it bothers Jaskier greatly his friend always bears his pain alone.
It's almost as if, after all this time, he still does not trust his friends.] I won't bother you about it, but I do... I do wish you would tell me. Perhaps you have better understanding, but I still have little idea what horrors this place promises us yet.
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No answer comes for a good minute or two. He tucks the edges of the bandage in, reaches for the ratty trousers he's been wearing for the past few weeks. A soft exhale suggests he has something he means to say that he isn't letting out quite yet. The other reason he hasn't spoken of it is because it isn't related to Thorne or what's happening here in the castle. They'd been shuffled off to do menial labour, and said labour had some shit side effects. That's all.
But he senses Jaskier's uncertainty, the fear that lingers under his words. Geralt perches on a table, leaning back against it to take the weight off his leg. ]
The crystals we were sent to gather had hallucinogenic effects. I saw some things. Anyone with me saw the same. [ He picks up the leather cord he's since gotten from Jaskier and wraps it around his still-damp hair, sweeping it out of the way. ] Not exactly the way I prefer to introduce myself.
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It's only when Geralt sighs that Jaskier perks up. Oh, he knows that sound. Very well.
So he waits. As patiently as he can, which is not very patient at all, but at least he's quiet about it, picking at his cuticles with his nails, tossing Geralt the cord once he's squeezed his hair out.
It begins. The crystals. Jaskier blinks, slightly wide-eyed.]
I'm sorry, the crystals gave you visions? Shared visions? [Oh, that's totally normal. Completely. And, he imagines, an extremely not-nice thing for someone with Geralt's level of personal tragedy.
He knows better than to ask what he saw. Not that he doesn't want to know; he is quite aware Geralt won't answer.] I see. Makes sense why you're so ornery about it. In that case, I certainly won't go around touching any random crystals, then. [It isn't a joke; an observation only. And that means, if Geralt is recommending Sam, perhaps he can put two-and-two together and assume Sam must have seen something, too. The same thing, perhaps.
Time to do a bit of investigating on that note, then.
He stands, stretches, and walks over to Geralt to pat his shoulders in solidarity.] I'm being quite serious here, so listen.
[He takes a deep breath.]
Take care of yourself, all right? As well as you can.
[He doesn't ask permission (because he certainly never does for anything) before pulling his friend into a tight hug, brief and sudden and over with in a few moments.] We'll get you out of there soon enough.
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For a bit, he simply sits where he is. His reluctance to return to the dungeons is apparent, even if he won't say it. The cell feels ever more crowded as time passes. Pushing Cirilla out of his mind grows harder the more restless he is. It all snowballs into a yawning pit, an urge that itches his fingers, makes him want to curl them around the grip of a blade he doesn't have.
So when Jaskier embraces him, out of nowhere, it startles him briefly. He's tense, before lifting a hand to accept it. His expression is difficult to read afterwards: contemplative, but etched with a concern he won't yet voice. Jaskier doesn't often hide his emotions. This time, it's different. He knows his friend is keeping a few things unspoken. That Jaskier has not said in explicit terms what he's afraid will happen, might happen. Truth be known, Geralt's not sure if Jaskier knows -- if any of them know. Maybe that's part of the fear. ]
Should worry about yourself first, bard. [ It's gruff, intentionally so, but a softness belies his words. ] Just find me those maps.
[ It'll give Jaskier something to do. Something to focus on. And the implication, further: that he doesn't plan on wasting away in some foreign court's dungeons if he can help it. ]