abraxaslogs | Mᴀᴍᴀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʙᴀᴅɢᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇ (ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ)

( He gets restless sometimes. It's not that he hates having a place to hang his hat, roots put down, somewhere to call his, it's just... he's used to traveling. Used to taking days or weeks out on the road, new sights, new places, new faces. His trips out to the desert and down the roads only accomplish so much. Horseback ain't a treat, and it's not like he makes it to new cities anymore.

Rolling through the Horizon is the next best thing. People have some wild crap floating around in here, and thanks to his mental influence he's able to manifest temporary, unobtrusive roads through them upon which too drive his car.

He wanders. He explores.

And when he rolls up on a big ass mountain castle, it takes him a second to connect the dots between what he's seeing and who it must belong to. He'd been tempted to keep on moving past — right up until it pings in his brain, and curiosity drives him toward a detour.

He parks outside of the busted gate. The Impala's door squeaks as it opens, the metal gently protesting the cold. He makes his way through the snow at a slow amble, his layers not quite cutting it for the weather. It's fine. He'll survive.

One of the first thing he clocks about the place is its most apparent sign of life, the horse hanging out at the stables. It's there he heads first, swinging in to give the girl a quiet greeting and rub along the mane. )

Way less of a douchebag than my girl, huh?

( He mumbles companionably to the mare, like he's letting her in on an inside joke. )

Wouldn't happen to give lessons, would you?

[ These days, Geralt is in and out of Kaer Morhen even when he's in the Horizon itself. Often he'll spend time in the yard. Less time inside. Today, though, he is inside: up in his room, hovering over a table that contains letters in a flowing script, and pressed lilacs. He's buried them in a locked drawer. Mostly tried to forget about them. It's just that recently—

The rumble of the car outside is unmistakable. He pauses. Closes the drawer he was on the cusp of opening. The visit is unexpected, but not unwelcome. It takes a minute. Then the heavy doors creak open, and Geralt steps through. A white wolf follows at his heel. He's dressed same as ever, sleeves rolled up, unbothered by the falling snow and the frosty air. ]

There's a fee for lessons.

[ Whether Geralt is answering for the horse or something else is hard to say. Dean will recognize the horse as definitely his, though—the same one he owns in Cadens: a sturdy black mare with a thick heavy tail. There's no childhood pony or first horse, no sentimental breed he seems to care to recreate. Whatever horse happens to be his in the present, that's Roach. That's the one that sits in the stables. ]

( Geralt's voice carries over and Dean looks up, flashing him a quick, tight smile before turning his attention back to the horse for another solid pat or two. )

Yeah? What's the going rate these days, six carrots and a bale of hay?

( Don't bother answering, man. That question was aimed at the horse. She doesn't seem particularly inclined to answer one way or another, so he ambles out of the stable, absently wiping his hand off on his jacket.

Gives a pointed look around at Geralt's whole... everything. )

Nice digs.

[ Geralt raises an eyebrow, then glances back around them. There's something incongruous about seeing Dean's car just outside, lurking atop a mountain that no car has ever graced before this. ]

It's home. [ One that's seen some shit, but much like Geralt does not particularly care who glimpses his scars, he neither explains nor hides the wounds that pierce the broken walls and towers. ] Wasn't expecting company.

[ Not that he minds Dean's. He's already walking, leading the way up the snowy path and back towards inside. Steps not over but right on top of the buried skeletons, as though they're paving stones. The wolf wanders off on its own, disappearing between into the white. ]

What brings you?

( Geralt doesn't explain, Dean doesn't ask — not yet, anyway. Maybe it'll come to him over a beer sometime, but for now, the battle-scarred walls get a pass. This is a freaking fortress, and Geralt is a hunter. It's not exactly a Will Graham leap to guess some crap's gone down here. Hell, both the places back in his own domain were burned to the ground. Obviously this little piggy should've made his house out of stone like Team Witcher to withstand all those big bad wolves.

Speaking of.

That sure is an Alaskan Murder Dog.

Dean insists he's not a dog person — something that would later be proven to be an outright lie, like one of those dads who says "we're never getting a dog" and then two months later they're cuddling in the recliner together. That huge son of a bitch is a little different, and brings about a mild unease entirely brought on by the memory of being ripped apart by hellhounds.

But it's small, and quickly doused without any real hit to his companionable mood. He falls into step beside Geralt easy enough, following along with only a fleeting falter to shoot skeletons a bemused look.

Hell of a decorating choice, but okay. )

Ah, not much, really. Felt like getting away from the same old same, took a drive through the horizon, saw your big ass mountain castle and figured I'd swing past to take a look.

( Swing past, because if Geralt hadn't invited him, he wouldn't have wandered in any further than the outer courtyard. Knowing what little he does about the place makes venturing further on his own feel intrusive, and lowkey makes him appreciate the welcome. Let it never be said he doesn't respect personal boundaries. )

Man, you weren't kidding. This place is badass, I feel like I'm about to tangle with a Balrog or something.

[ There have only been a small handful, he's noticed, who do not immediately go to his wolf and treat it like a domesticated hound. He supposes the Horizon offers a certain sense of security not present were they in the actual wilds—the animal obviously belongs to him. That Dean is one who gives it a bit of distance somehow doesn't surprise him. Hunter instincts, he presumes.

His lips tilt ever so faintly. ]

Monsters almost never venture near these walls. [ Almost. Which—he'll have to ask Dean what a Balrog is. Sounds intriguing. ] They prefer to steer clear of a nest of Witchers.

[ When he pushes open the doors, the inside isn't any less worn and crumbling. Drafty, holes in the ceiling. The tree does stand, though, with its dangling medallions. A scar that tears up the middle as though its two halves were pieced back together. There's a certain air to the hall. Something wistful and hollow all at once in the bowls and pitchers laid out on tables that will never be filled. ]

Back home, few see the inside. [ He seats himself atop one of the tables. There's a vague shrug. He built Kaer Morhen with the understanding he would take visitors. The fortress has no reason to be a secret, removed from the context of its world. ] Matters less here.

( That whole monsters not venturing near the walls thing makes all that destruction out there a little more curious. Ticks it up on his stuff to ask over a beer list. If it's that uncommon, there's bound to be a story.

Then again, half the time those outlier stories aren't particularly happy or easy to tell. All the more reason not to go probing right now, just in case.

Sure would be nice if monsters steered clear of friggin' hunter nests. Granted, some do, but there are just as many who'd be eager to come in and test their luck at wiping it out for the bragging rights.

Now that he's been given permission to scope the place out at least a little, he doesn't follow Geralt straight toward a table. Instead, he gravitates toward the tree of hanging medallions. There's a seriousness at the corners of his lips that suggests he's taking a probably not too inaccurate guess at what it means.

Looks like dog tags. You only hang those up for one reason. )

Yeah, maybe. ( Is his answer, and it doesn't sound entirely convinced. Look, this isn't gonna make a whole lot of sense, but his reasoning: ) Just because it's not real doesn't mean it's not real, you know?

( Might not need to be a secret here, might be that the threat of opening it up doesn't exist, but it's still an important place. Dean's bar is wide open, but across the street is Bobby's house. Nobody's been in there yet but him. The old son of a bitch might not be around to get all pissy about strangers romping through his secret opium collection, lore tomes, or porno mags, but it's still...

Significant. Not a wide open invitation for randos.

Granted, he'd be a hell of a lot happier if he started filling it up with his people, but historically speaking he hasn't been all that successful in that department. )

[ That's definitely a story that requires several beers. An entire barrel or two, maybe. But it won't be impossible to pry it out of him.

He lets Dean explore as he wants. Anything off limits is already locked behind closed doors. His room, for one. The space buried beneath several winding sets of stairs, for another. That one, even he doesn't venture towards. It is one of the rare things he's chosen to ignore instead of confronting.

His gaze flicks to Dean by the tree. Every medallion is different, as though they've been crafted over the centuries by a variety of jewellers, but they all carry the same markers: a wolf, the circular shape. Geralt has never parted with his since he received it as a boy, other than his first few months in Abraxas. Being without it leaves him uneasy. ]

Mm. [ Yeah. Dean isn't wrong. It's real enough that the whole damn thing fell apart after his memories returned, and he spent months cleaning up the blood, repairing the furniture, because willing it into place simply didn't work. ] I never thought of creating any other place. The temple, perhaps.

[ He says the temple as if Dean knows what it means, though the man likely doesn't. Either way, the keep had felt right. And maybe having chosen to stay here, it feels especially significant. He won't ever see the one back home again. ]

( A few more solemn seconds are spent studying the tree, and then he unceremoniously breaks away, heading back toward the tables. Given that a small portion of his brain is basically a six year old with attention deficit disorder, he absently touches stuff as he goes. Lifting up pitchers to scope the insides, straightening crooked cutlery a little, wiping off an errant smudge or cobweb and then immediately wiping his hands off on his coat.

He splits his gaze between whatever he's fidgeting and Geralt's expression about fifty fifty. )

Yeah? What's the deal with the temple?

( What's so great about it? Or maybe not great, since it didn't make the first draft of Geralt's memory palace. )

[ Geralt watches Dean put his hands over everything with a sort of faint amusement. There's ale in the pitchers, bread and cheese on the platters, which Dean is free to help himself. The quality can't be accounted for, though. Winter stores and all that.

Unlike Dean, Geralt is largely still, other than a mug that he occasionally shifts from one hand to the other. ]

I was sent there. Few years after the Trials. Witchers learned Signs from the priestesses.

[ He speaks easily of the temple; no real hesitation or dodging of details. Kaer Morhen is home, but the temple perhaps is the only place from his childhood that holds no complicated associations. His time there was good. No unfortunate memories. No lurking horrors. Nenneke was kind; its apprentices were giving. Food was nice. At worst, he sometimes found the lessons impossibly dull. ]

( Funny how he can apparently go from respecting boundaries to helping himself, but listen. There is no such thing as safety for ale or food around Dean. It's inevitable that he winds up with a mug of his own, settling on another table top with a hunk of bread in one hand. )

The Trials thing, remind me what that is again? Is that what you guys call the horrifying nightmare basement of hell and bad choices, or was that something else? And why do you need a whole temple to learn sign language?

( Somehow, despite knowing and intimately understanding just exactly how dark and unpleasant the subject matter of the horrifying nightmare basement is, he still says it completely irreverently. Zero sensitivity, totally casual, and glossing right over its significance.

Sometimes it just be like that. You grow callouses. He talks that way about his own stint in Hell.

As he waits for Geralt's answer, he takes a massive bite of his hunk of bread. Chews twice, then wrinkles his brow and takes a second look at it to make sure it was actually bread he picked up. Well, that's... different. It's a little like raising a glass without looking, expecting soda, and getting milk instead. Really throws him off for the span of a second and a half. )

[ His lips quirk. Though it is not a fact he will ever note out loud, Dean has learned a good portion about him in a far shorter amount of time than most. And a reason for that is the precise lack of sensitivity—the kind of dry flippancy that's common among his own. When they start to argue about how many pints of blood they lost, as though it's a competition. ]

That one. [ Apt description. Geralt raises an eyebrow as Dean shoves a sizeable chunk of bread into his mouth. Otherwise makes no comment. Table manners hardly grace these walls. ] It isn't a language. You've seen me use them.

[ He just didn't explain what they were. He does now, in a fashion—reaching over to light the candles on the table, not unlike how he'd lit Dean's torch that day in the desert.

Magic, effectively. Chaos. To him, there's a difference between the Signs of a Witcher and the magic of a mage. The source is the same, but theirs is not meant to be relied upon. Supplementary—a tool, among their many. ]

( You've seen me use them; it takes him a beat, a blink, a faintly uncomprehending look at Geralt lighting that flame, and then the understanding hits. By now he can (more or less) consistently make a tiny lighter flame, he's seen others do it, he knows that's a this world kind of magic. It's only right now that he's realizing that the signs Geralt used are, like, his and not like the Horizon-inspired gift Dean can (a fair bit less consistently) do. )

So that's- that's just a Witcher thing.

( He puffs out a breath made of half scoff, half laugh. )

Jesus, no wonder you've lived to be a million years old. Come on, man. That's just overkill. You guys are super soldier night-vision battle tanks already, meanwhile here I am running around like a squishy jackass dying every eight minutes.

( He shakes his head. Telegraphs a little mild incredulity as he takes a drink of ale. After he swallows, he points his mug at Geralt in accusation — good-natured, not mean spirited. )

I don't wanna hear a damn word outta you the next time I'm hauling my ass up a cliff at half speed. Save it for my funeral, do some party tricks. Witcher-blast a rabbit out of a hat or something.

[ The sound he makes is very close to a laugh. He actually doesn't know what it's like to live in a world where the only hunters are a bunch of ragtag humans who trained themselves, scrounging for stories of bodies and strange apparitions. Sounds ill-advised.

Though he suspects the Continent's monsters are simply bigger. The ones in Dean's world seem evolved to hide among the humans. Or are humans really so willfully blind of what's lurking in their world? ]

Mm. [ His gaze settles on Dean, casual but with a hint of something more. ] I don't know. You might come back out of the hat instead.

[ He's only saying. Most humans only die the once, Dean. He's not so certain Dean is as squishy as he claims. Even Witchers don't crawl back from the dead. ]

( Now that earns a laugh out of him, honest to god — a little surprised, a flash of teeth, head thrown momentarily back before he ducks it again. Geralt, stoic son of a bitch that he is, sometimes hits just right with that dry sense of humor. )

Well, you're not wrong. ( Is his wry return, shaking his head gently and bringing that mug back up to his mouth. Into it, he mutters a pleasant: ) God, I hope not.

( It's a bleak joke, and there's just a hint of dark truth to it. What's dead should stay dead, he doesn't consider himself the exception.

Nobody brings back the dead for anything good. At the very least, nobody brings him back for anything good. Leave him in the hat. )

[ He lets out a huff of breath. ] That makes two of us.

[ What's dead should stay dead indeed. Even now, he hasn't any idea how Dean walking around is possible if what he's been told is true. It shouldn't be, but it evidently is, and Geralt is not a man who doubts what's in front of him when it's this blatant. He's accepted the fact at face value. Doesn't mean the question isn't there, though.

He'd hardly want to come back, either. He's not keen on death, but when it's the end, it's the end. That's all there is to it. That's all there should be.

A heartbeat, two, like he's lingering on the thought a moment before he circles back to, ] How's your—? [ His fingers snap, to indicate. ]

( One of the many reasons they get along: most people would probably look at him sideways over that remark. Give him the pity eyes, or the concerned puppy face, or just not get what he means when he says it. It's as simple as it is complicated, and the understanding they both have is one that can only come from perspective and fatigue.

It's also not a significant thing, meaning there's zero somber lingering on it at the question. He just lights up like a damn nine year old, tossing his hunk of bread absently onto a plate to free up his hand. )

Check it out.

( Dramatic pause.

Snap.

Nothing.

Wait, shit. No, hold on, he's got it.

Snap.

There it is — like a zippo flame an inch or two above his fingers. He looks way too proud as he gestures to it. )

Eh? Eh?

[ He checks it out. His eyebrow lifts on the first attempt, but the flame does snap to life. Given all the magic he's seen, it might be surprising that the look in his eyes is one that's intrigued—but fire magic simply isn't done in his world. Not like this. Not casually, by mages or druids or most anyone who wield Chaos. He's grown more used to it being different in this sphere, but it's still an unusual sight to him. ]

Not bad. [ Dean's enthusiasm drags the faintest smile out of him. ] Back home, they claim fire magic comes with a cost. Mages are forbidden from using it.

[ It's not meant to be ominous, though possibly it comes off as such. He's known both Summoned and the locals to use fire magic, creating flames to do the simplest tasks like warming a cooking pot; there appears to be not much to fear. Maybe the strength of the magic in the land has to do with it. The kind that lets any human learn magic, when they otherwise couldn't. ]

( Not bad — don't encourage him, Geralt. You don't wanna condone this kind of behavior. Dean's entirely too pleased by the approval, and it edges him a little toward smug even as he lets the flame splutter out. Dude's a slut for praise. )

Where I'm from they say if you play with fire you piss the bed, but that's mostly to keep kids from stealing matches and burning the house down.

( He returns flippantly, weaving his free hand around his mug to join the other. )

Seems like a weird thing to get all up in arms about. You can blast monsters back thirty feet or whatever, but starting a fire's crossing a line?

[ Dean does look entirely too pleased. Geralt tilts his head, as though he's considering something about Dean that he isn't saying out loud. After a second, he seems to move on. ]

Fire consumes. [ He gives a small shrug, noncommittal. He doesn't know, in truth. What he does know is that it is perhaps not without merit. Something happened to Yennefer, and it's to do with what she did at Sodden Hill. But Yennefer's the last thing he wants on his mind. He leaves the topic quickly. ] I'm not a mage. Magic is only a tool for us.

[ Whatever rules are dictated by the Brotherhood, it matters little to a Witcher. They have the same Signs they've been using for centuries, no more no less. Even here, Geralt's never learned any further magic. Not until very recently has he finally considered seeing what more he can do with his Signs. ]

( He makes a small noise, an offshoot of a grunt. Understanding and agreement. )

Sam's always been the magically inclined out of the two of us. ( Which, actually, come to think of it — quick clarification. ) Sam's my brother's name. Different Sam. Taller, paler, hair's about your length.

( He's not sure if he's ever mentioned it before now, and considering their mutual friend, the confusion was probably a given.

Hair length might be an overstatement, but not by much. God only knows how long it's gotten since he's been in Purgatory — and now here. )

Except his whole thing was less Hunter Karate and more... fire consumes.

( Those last two words enunciated darkly. Obviously not literal, but the principal applies — what he was doing ate at him. It had a cost. )

Your thing I could get behind. The rest of it, not so much.

[ Mm. The brother who died and also returned from the dead, exchanged for a soul? Geralt takes in that information. Much like some of the others, Dean's world appears not devoid of magic. Just less of it. Almost dormant, to the point where only a rare few can sense it and it exists only as a myth to everyone else.

There's a cost to everything. It's just a matter of how heavy. And then there's always the matter of the user. What they choose to do with their power. He wonders exactly what price Dean's brother paid. His life? Was that before or after?

A conversation for another time, perhaps. ]

Witcher Signs? [ Geralt sets his mug aside. ] They're simple. Created so even unruly boys can grasp. Though I still destroyed a few walls in my time.

( Well, there's a small ping on his radar. Hold up a second — there's a gentle furrow to his brow, a subtle shift, a curiosity but with direction. )

Even unruly human boys?

( He's an unruly boy. Maybe a better question — before Geralt even answers: )

Is this like a... super sacred... ancient Witcher secret thing?

( Just to see if he'd be crossing boundaries if he started venturing somewhere with this. )

[ Geralt's head lifts up. Realization crosses his face about the same time, as he starts to catch what Dean is driving at.

Hm.

He's been teaching Ciri, which is a separate matter. An effort to help her to control her magic in the only way he knows how. In theory, though, anyone with access to Chaos should be capable of learning a Sign. The source is the same. The only difference is the method of harnessing it.

It's not ever crossed his mind to teach anyone else. Sacred is not quite accurate—they were taught by the priestesses, not other Witchers—but it is part of being a Witcher. Which Dean is not. But what does that matter anymore when no one even knows what a fucking Witcher is? What they've guarded over the centuries has always been about preserving what's left of themselves. Granting someone who isn't one of them the ability to mimic and operate as though they were carries a danger of its own. Here, he is all that's left. Maybe—

He isn't looking to rebuild his kind. Not like that. More...

(More what?) He pushes his thoughts aside. ]

Depends on the unruly human. [ Geralt takes a step forward of his own, towards where he thinks Dean is meeting him. ] How much grief will he give his instructor?

( There they go again, syncing up on the same wavelength with practically no effort and no real discussion needed. He lifts his chin an inch or two, expression erring toward serious. )

Not as much as you'd think.

( Some things he doesn't screw around about. There's recreational bitching, there's being cavalier at times in dangerous situations, there's his general tendency to default toward making jokes, but some things are different. His candy-coated bullshit outer layer has boundaries neatly delineated by a drill sergeant. Lines clearly drawn; the joking stops when the learning starts, because if he gets it wrong after that it's nobody's fault but his — and so are all the consequences that follow.

That being said, they're not doing it now, which means he can still gloss over that seriousness with a faux-thoughtful quirk of lips and an amendment: )

Maybe a little.

( Not even a fraction of the grief he'll give himself, frankly. )

[ It is a serious answer. Geralt weighs it for a moment. He does believe him; you don't make it long, human or not, doing what they do without an ounce of discipline.

Besides, no one can ever be more of a handful than Ciri. Sometimes, it's a wonder he ever got her to listen to him. ]

No harm in trying. [ If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. It isn't like Ciri, where Dean runs the risk of blowing a crater in the earth. He presumes. He's discovered a few things about Dean that is clearly not typical for a human, but thus far, an inordinately powerful amount of magical ability is not one of them.

He's teasing when he adds, ] Perhaps then you might keep up with me.

( If Dean runs the risk of blowing a crater in the earth, it'll only be because of his temper — or because someone was unwise enough to finally let him use a god damn grenade launcher. One day.

He snorts at Geralt's bullcrap. Dryly: )

You're hilarious, shut up.

( Also... no he won't, but whatever, rub it in why don't you. Anyway, more importantly, straight to business: )

When do we start?

[ He glances over. ] When I'm back. Come find me.

[ Any time he's in town, he hasn't much to do. Mostly, he's just looking to fill the time between a drink, searching for another contract, and looking in on the ever-growing circle of people who have become...

(His.)

Either way. Plenty of time to teach another hunter. Which is something he's apparently doing these days. Hundred years without anyone under his wing, now he's somehow wound up with a handful in little more than a few seasons. ]

Deal.

( Simple as that — and he will. In the meantime, they do what they normally do:

Drink.

He doesn't say thank you, but it's floating around there anyway. )

Mᴀᴍᴀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʙᴀᴅɢᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇ (ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ)

Fᴇᴇʟs ʟɪᴋᴇ I'ᴍ ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋɪɴ' ᴏɴ ʜᴇᴀᴠᴇɴ's ᴅᴏᴏʀ

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