ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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abraxaslogs2022-05-23 07:34 pm
righteously) wrote in abraxaslogs2022-05-23 07:34 pm
Hunters Anonymous (OPEN)
WHO: Dean & Open - Mingle it up!
WHEN: late May
WHERE: the Horizon - Roadhouse Edition
WHAT: Starting a Hunters Anonymous Support Group
WARNINGS: drinking and murder, mostly.
NOTES: This is an open mingle, so feel free to top-level below! The idea here is to open up the Roadhouse for hunter-types to use as a central meeting place or base of operations for anyone who desires to, so feel free to use it as a backdrop for any threads whenever. Obviously non-hunter people are welcome to see the message and wander in whenever they want, too! Info on the Roadhouse can be found here. Hit me up at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
paingravy for anything you need any time.
WHEN: late May
WHERE: the Horizon - Roadhouse Edition
WHAT: Starting a Hunters Anonymous Support Group
WARNINGS: drinking and murder, mostly.
( It starts out with just a couple of people. Dean, obviously, because it's his bar. Eventually Geralt, followed by one of Geralt's other hunting buddies — and then another, and then before you know it there's a handful of hunters all swapping stories about the crap they've seen out in the wilds.
It's about the time Dean makes to take out a notebook and honest to god start writing some of this crap down that two things hit him — First, this is actually really freakin' useful. Second, it feels right. The Roadhouse here may be fake, but this is what the real one would've been like. This is what it was meant for. This is the most real this place has been since he got here.
So he runs it by Geralt, and puts out an APB.
Harvelle's Roadhouse is officially open for business — and not just of the drinking variety.
Mind the jukebox. )
NOTES: This is an open mingle, so feel free to top-level below! The idea here is to open up the Roadhouse for hunter-types to use as a central meeting place or base of operations for anyone who desires to, so feel free to use it as a backdrop for any threads whenever. Obviously non-hunter people are welcome to see the message and wander in whenever they want, too! Info on the Roadhouse can be found here. Hit me up at
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Every day. [ Deadpan. He lifts the bottle to his lips. A pause. His eyes shift to the windows. A large black wildcat lurks outside. Glowing red eyes. He raises an eyebrow. ]
Friendly. [ There's maybe a visible understanding, if you squint, when Geralt looks back at Nero. ] Some things spawn in here against your best intentions. You learn to live with it.
[ Or you bury it down a spiralling set of stairs, deep underground, then lock the doors. Either way—Nero is hardly the only one here who's manifested unwanted creatures and places. ]
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He's not a see-through guy. Least he doesn't think of himself that way. But lately, everything's really getting underneath the skin.
Or maybe Geralt's got eyes. Could be that simple.
No one knows anything about V here. The guy might as well not have existed. Unless Dante is -- but at this point, Nero's not sure he'd ever want to ask. V was there, then he wasn't. Urizen was there, then it wasn't. It was like the shittiest combo of peanut butter and jelly.]
You catch on quick. [Is all the confirmation he suspects Geralt needs. But he's not lingering on it. Not lingering why that thin, of all things, is what his head creates. That thing, and a brown book labeled only as "V," tucked away where no one's finding it.] Anyway, seriously. What do you hunt? I got the feeling everyone's bags aren't the ones I go after.
[Way more interesting topics than why a giant black panther is following him around. Which there is absolutely no reason for.]
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He is most certainly not referring to his.
Geralt doesn't linger on it, either. He hasn't any need to know what the wildcat means or why it's spawned in place of the phone booth. At least it isn't the shadowy form of his own fucking child. ]
Monsters. [ The reply is flat. Geralt raises an eyebrow. What else does Nero expect the answer to be? ] Deer, on occasion, if I'm hungry.
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[Everyone around here's such a sorry sack about it. Come on, this place at least needs a fighting ring or something. Not with each other, obviously. Like -- you know, a couple of Empusas at least. An Empusa Queen. Put up a fence around her.
Maybe he's really just losing his mind out in the sticks.
Nero wrinkles his nose as if the idea of eating what he hunts has never occurred to him. Which it hasn't. Have you seen demons? Probably ninety percent of them have some kind of ooze.] I mean what kind. You can create anything here, right? Show me yours, I'll show you mine. Swap notes or something. Seriously, I'm bored as hell out there. You kid about deer, but the only thing they got out in Solvunn is giant boars. Not much of a hunt, offing some random pig just minding his business.
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He finishes taking a long drink before he gestures his mug at the board on the opposite wall. Less full of confusing scribbles than the one that Sam keeps. Horizon magic helps. Some sketches of common beasts in the desert are pinned up, with weak spots marked and parts often in demand for a variety of apothecaries. Useful items, originally meant for Dean. ]
Not even a deadly forest ram? [ He hadn't known exactly what he was in for when he stepped through that portal into the Free Cities. His ability to continue hunting has been...one stroke of fortune, he supposes.
As for a beast from home. Hm. He sets his drink aside. Cups his hands. When he opens them up again, they reveal a miniature myriapod skittering along. It rears up with its tiny legs, eerily human-like hands waving in the air, and gives the smallest roar—bouncing off an invisible wall that keeps it from running right off the table. Almost rather charming, at this size. Almost. ]
Your turn. [ If Nero can. Has he learned to create yet? ]
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[Still not much of a fight to him. One swing of a sword (shit, he really needs to get a sword, huh?) and the thing's dead. Then what's he got? A giant dead goat. It's not really impressing anyone, and -- wait, do people around here even eat goats? Fuck. He should ask.
He does look to the board, and it's cool and all -- the first of its kind he's really seen besides the notes Nico loves writing, actually -- but it's not like, the real thing. It doesn't have weight. A picture's a picture.
Nero turns back to Geralt to the guy cupping his hands, and for a second he's about to make a joke -- you gonna bum off me already? Don't think you need to pay for drinks here -- until what looks like a fucked up centipede appears over his hands.]
Whoa! Hey, check that little guy out. [He laughs. There's something sort of hilarious about it. Of course Geralt's not fighting something this fucking size, but -- now he's kind of imagining it. Aw, look. It's even got fucked up human-looking arms. Nico would love it.]
I got a friend who'd be gnawing at the bit to pawn off one of those mandibles. Kinda reminds me of home.
[Can he create? He's. Been practicing. Sort of. Once V's book dropped out of nowhere and landed on the phone booth, Nero did want to figure out what was making this shit happen. Like. Yeah, he missed home, but that couldn't be it. (Yeah, he was haunted by that book. Maybe Shadow, too.) If what he missed just appeared, then where was Kyrie?
(Nothing could be her except the real deal.)
But he'd made other things. The Red Queen. An honest-to-god replica of the girl, beautiful and sharp and roaring like a tiger.
Nero lays out a hand and gives his offering: out of a puff of smoke stalks a nasty-looking empusa queen, raising a distinctly skull-like face to give a small, piercing screech. The boils of blood in its bloated abdomen light up like Christmas lights as it makes a lunge for Geralt's little beastie -- but hits a similar invisible wall, which it scratches at desperately.] Not bad, huh? [For the creating, he means.] Must be a family resemblance. [The joke comes out a little edged.] It's always bugs. Why's so many things gotta look like bugs?
[It's not that he's creeped out by them -- he isn't -- but where's the variety? The inspiration? At least half the damn underworld's gotta be teeming with bugs at this point. And lizards.]
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He can admit, he's rarely seen anyone outside of his own kind so delighted to look upon a monster before. It makes him raise an eyebrow. Reminds him of winter nights around the table, arguing about whose wyvern nest was bigger. He prods the small creature until it skitters back towards him and clamps down on his finger as hard as it can. Which is just about hard enough to leave a small imprint from its mandibles.
It's joined by Nero's tiny creature not longer after. Glowing abdomen, carapace thorax. He studies it, tilting his head to look under it as though he's already trying to determine its weak points. Its oddly human face matches the strange human-like hands on the myriapod. The resemblance is, indeed, a bit striking. ]
You learned. [ It is said with a sense that Geralt always assumed he would, in time. Creation magic, that is. The Horizon finds its to speak to everyone sooner or later, it seems. What that means, he doesn't know, but. They're all here, all making use of it. Feels impossible to separate the Summoned from this place now.
He looks back up. The myriapod charges at the other creature and slams into it with a tiny hiss. Nero is not, he knows, asking genuinely, but Geralt answers, anyway. ] They evolve quicker. Hundreds of eggs. Some manage to interbreed. Though this one was...new. At the time. Hadn't seen one quite like it before.
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[He jokes, except the wheels on the phone booth are mostly gone. However (when the thing shows up again), it does seem to smoothly roll around without any issues. It's basically rolling on Heelys now.
Besides, he's got a witch for a friend. Like he needs to give Wanda another reason to insult him. What'd she call him if he didn't get better? Creatively bankrupt? Constipated imagination? Excuse him for being new to astral planes, thanks.]
Whoa. [His brows raise, sort of impressed, as the monsters get into it. The queen's not about to be bullied, and she starts sawing off some of those human arms with the scythes she's got for her own arms. She hisses back, the crystallized boils on her body beginning to thump with red light.] Seems like you would've before. You got the smell of grizzled, experienced old man all over you. [No, he doesn't have anything close to Geralt's nose, but. Look, he knows the business.]
Mutation, maybe? Something new cooked up? [He pokes at the empusa's engorged abdomen as she gobbles up one of those dismembered arms.] These babies suck up blood from anything around them and go berserker mode after. Probably lay eggs all over the place. I haven't sat back and watched. Pretty easy to get them to slice up their own buddies, though. Always fun when the trash takes itself out.
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Another realm. [ He doesn't explain it further. Back home, this would be a ridiculous statement to make. An impossible thought. Here, between all the Summoned, it's, mm. Not common, but apparently not unusual, either, for things to simply come through from another world. ] Subspecies of myriapods. Or the originating species.
[ Which came first? Hard to say.
He watches the other insect tear the arms off and gorge on them. It never occurred to him until now, that he could simply make some monsters and observe them. Could be a worthwhile method of training or examining a new creature.
He takes a drink, ignoring the mini splatters of blood. Instead, his eyes are on Nero as he sits back. ] How did you fall into the work?
[ There's always a story. Colour him curious. There are two kinds of hunters to him: ones who picked it up because they're good at killing and there isn't much else to use that skillset on in this world, or because like him, it is what they know—what they perhaps only know. A way of being that they live and breathe. Nero strikes him as the latter. ]
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Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool.]
Whole 'nother realm, huh. [He says it like a guy unsurprised to hear it. And it isn't even about Abraxas. It's the underworld. Some other plane spitting out monsters is nothing new. They gotta crawl outta somewhere, right? But Geralt's saying this one's different. Maybe some of his hunts are homebrewed.] Myriapod's almost too on the nose. Or a misnomer. Those are all hands, not feet.
[Semantics, but. Shouldn't it be myriamanu? Okay, fair. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
He moves his hand away when a splash of monster blood threatens to splatter across his fingers. Man, they're really going at it, huh? This is a life or death struggle, and it's like watching an ant wrestling a crumb, waiting for them to move the magnifying glass overhead.
Nero tips his head. It's not the weirdest question, and -- another hunter, he'd get it, right? It's not like Geralt's some occult journalist looking for a scoop. The Order doesn't mean shit here. Besides, they're all gone now. It's just him, Nico, and a van.] Born into it. [He pauses. Debatable, considering the bloodline now. He really doesn't wanna get into it, though. Geralt's already a nose ahead of most people, and that's weird enough.] Well. Adopted. Got picked up as a baby by the Order. Church full of hunters. Moment I could pick up a sword, I found out I'm pretty damn good at this whole hunting thing. Not so great at the church thing. [Pretty much only thing he's made for, really. And he had a whole city to protect.
Hah. City. Whole world, with Dante gone.] Doesn't freak me out to say I like doing it. It makes sense, you know? I don't exactly see myself fixing cars. Or, uh... plumbing.
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Yeah. [ Geralt raises an eyebrow. Exactly. ] Guess which part of it was new.
[ That and the splintered skull. He did rather leave the head the mage's library floor. Makes him wonder if it's still there. He supposes he'll never know now. Perhaps that's for the best. Leaving the Continent and its troubles behind. Most of its troubles.
Nero says adopted, and something flickers over his expression. A church, though. That's an unusual term for it. Where in the hell does religion come into slaying monsters? Maybe it's not unlike the occasional knight, bent on their morals. Something to do with honour and being chosen.
Hm. He's a hint quieter when he answers. ] Me, too. That fortress you saw. I trained there as a boy.
[ It isn't odd to hear, no. Geralt is not quite the same. He doesn't know if it's accurate to say he likes it. But he is good at it. There is satisfaction found in a job properly done, when he can collect his coin and ride onward and perhaps even leave a village a little...safer, at least, from one beast. Even though he knows the next storm will always be around the corner: war, plague, bandits. He's never fooled himself into believing he makes any difference in the grand scheme of things. And yet—
He picks up the myriapod, placing it back on the table before it can fall off. It's now missing a few more hands, but the other has a chunk out of her abdomen missing. ]
You never know. Could be a fine plumber.
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And now it's wrapping its body around the empusa, squeezing her as she hisses and stabs at it. More blood splashing. It's pretty brutal, and neither of them blink an eye at it.]
Makes sense. Reminded me a bit of home, way back. Chapel was a bit more, uh. Tidy.
[As in, not falling to shit. But the guy's clearly kept it looking like that for a reason. If he can give a phone booth a set of wagon wheels, he could totally fix up a fortress. Make it brand-spankin' new.
Nero jerks a chair over with his foot, then props his boots up on it. He pokes at the monsters with a finger, watches them switch targets from each other to the interruption of his single digit.] I'd be a real shit plumber. No pun intended. [His smile's a bit distracted by the monsters chewing on his finger. Cute.] Not worth thinking about in the end.
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Not a shithole? [ His tone is vaguely amused. Oh, now Nero decides to be delicate about matters? Geralt is well aware of what Kaer Morhen looks like. And as Nero suspects, it is like that for a reason. It would not be home were it shiny and new.
Geralt watches the myriapod attack a finger with all its might. He huffs a sound. Not worth thinking about indeed. It's a question he can never answer when asked: what he would be if not a Witcher.
This world is making him realize it is far more ingrained in him than he'd even believed. Because—he has got a choice here. More of one. Hasn't he? No one would blink if he opened up a shop and sold flowers. He's not known as a Witcher here and the weight of stories and rumours that word carries. If he truly wanted, he could remake himself anew. But the truth is, he can't imagine it. He can't imagine being not this, can't imagine knowing what it is to live without a sword in his hand.
Maybe it's simply too late to be anything else. Maybe this is no longer a choice for him to make, even though it would seem he might have one at last. (Has he really one at all?)
As Nero said. Not worth thinking about. Sure as fuck not at the moment, when he's only here to drink. ] And what do you do now? Sheer the sheep?
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[And besides, the chapels might've been clean, but they weren't home. Not, he thinks, the way Geralt means it. Home was... well. Home was people. That was what mattered back then.
He takes his hand back out. The beasts go back to it, life or death, like he'd never interrupted. And go figure; looks like the Empusa's gonna lose. She's lost most of her back legs, slithering along with the legs she's got left, and the berserk energy she got from the blood has waned, the pustules of blood in her body dim again.
Nero sits back with a huff, crossing his arms across his chest.] Not much else to do. It's driving me nuts. But I gotta assume they brought me here for something, or it was totally pointless. Something's gotta happen eventually. Giant... I dunno. Tree-god or something coming around to kill everyone. It's only a matter of time with how Solvunn is.
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[ It's said casually, without heat. He obviously can't give a shit about niceties.
He mulls over the remark. For something. It would seem so, for all of the territories, but Solvunn has always been the most curious to him. Thorne wants the Singularity, the Cities want bodies for the war they see on the horizon. What does Solvunn want? Fodder for their gods? Feed for the goats?
His gaze drifts down to where the myriapod has effectively started eating the other creature alive. He tips an empty glass over top of them, just to. Contain any blood splatters. ]
Always the sleepy quiet villages you need to be careful of. [ He glances over. ] If any tree gods invade, let me know.
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[But it's obvious Nero's amused by the whole thing. Why not? Geralt's got a very familiar deadpan sorta humor -- the perfect kind for poking at. Nero's got a whole lifetime of getting under the skin of a guy like that and only getting a sharp word in return.
Now he thinks about it, Geralt knows him pretty well already. Or. Feels that way, huh? No one's ever gonna be Nero's brother again. There's no replacing Credo. Never will be. But he can appreciate a guy who brings those memories back.
The myriapod's got the empusa queen's head entirely off, ripped off with all of those little human hands. This is simultaneously one of the weirdest fuckin' things he's ever done, but also the coolest.
No need to keep them that small, right?
Nero snorts, dripping in derision.] Tell me about it. [He stretches, lifting his arms over his head, then to the sides. The myriapod's won, huh.] Yeah, yeah, you'll be first on the list. What're you gonna do, fly over and help? Come on. [He'll have it handled, thanks. He's got great experience with trees.] I wanna fight one of these things later. Gotta keep the practice up, you know. You wanna watch?
[Yeah, he's really been bored lately.]
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[ Mostly only Himeka, now. Wanda, too. He's more than aware Himeka can take care of herself, but nonetheless. The distance means he never quite knows what can happen when, where. All he can do is at least have someone keep an eye out for him.
He looks down at the captured beasts, then back up at Nero. Takes a drink before he shakes his head. ]
Another time. Had my fill of monsters. [ Unlike Nero, he runs into them on a regular basis in the real world. He's in the Horizon to have a drink and not kill something for once. ]
wrap up here?
[And yeah, the townspeople are fucking weird and sketchy, but he's not letting anything happen to them, either. He owes them for the wine and cheeses, the little gifts of soap and the butterfly necklace (still with its place hanging from a wall in his loft.)
Nero huffs, but with a shrug of his shoulder, he puts it on the table. Later. Honestly, the company's good enough. Himeka and Wanda are already precious to him, but they're... well. Not hunters. Not the way he is. They got more purpose in life than just going around shooting shit.]
Suit yourself. But I'm pickin' up this rain check when you got time.