EVENT #8: MÆRE - IC POST (MAIN EVENT)

[abraxasmods]

Event #8 - Mære

go to the OOC event info and plotting post or the IC faction intervention post.

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Sleep can be a welcome escape from the daily toils of life. No matter one's magical affinity or physical prowess, many succumb to the need eventually. While some find refuge in it, others prefer to avoid sleep for as long as they can, fearing what lurks in the corners. For the latter, perhaps what happens next is just part of their nightly struggle.

Beginning on the night of JUNE 18, characters will be met with unsettling dreams and their worst nightmares. It will build slowly over the course of the following week as manifestations of their deepest fears and regrets make themselves known.

Night Walk

How does it start? Familiar, perhaps: experienced before or a recognizable concoction of events and feelings. Your old home, a town you've visited, a room you met an old friend in, a corridor where you faced off with a great foe, or a mosaic of the different pieces of your life. You don't yet sense danger. It's safe, you think. Or alternatively: you are consumed immediately by an unsettling feeling, finding yourself in a darkened room you don't recognize, falling endlessly, unable to move, already wounded in the middle of nowhere, or the growl of an animal. Whatever the recreated vista, you slowly get the distinct sense that you are not alone.

As you explore your dreamscape, this sense does not leave you. You may find a shadow looming over you, catch something in the corner of your eye, hear a sound far off in the distance. Wherever you turn, you seem to just miss it. Whether this unsettles you or not will vary, but you will remember this come the morning. If you are one of the lucky ones, it all ends here. Strange dreams are nothing unusual. Those happen now and again. But for many others this is just the beginning.

The Entity

If you are among those less fortunate, you will find yourself plunged into the same dream. It may not be the next night. Perhaps it happens later, when you're napping in the afternoon, or a few nights afterwards when you've already forgotten all about it. Regardless, it returns to you. The stage might be different, the details shifted, but the feeling of something watching remains. In your absence, it only seems to have grown. Each time you return to this singular dream world, its presence grows ever stronger. Oppressive, suffocating, you know you are being hunted.

When you finally see it, you know exactly what it is. The Entity that hunts you is born out of your subconscious itself, your deepest fears and traumas given form. A twisted manifestation of unshakeable guilt, a creature or foe you have fought with once before, a person you may have loved so dearly now turned against you - the sight of it chills your blood and you know in your heart that it is here for you.

The Guest

Should fate twist further, you might not be the only one. Instead, you'll find other Summoned with you. They might also be running from a presence of their own or maybe they're merely unlucky enough to have fallen into the path of yours. Whatever it is, they too will bear witness to that which haunts you - or you will see what haunts them, as well. Your respective dreamscapes might meld together, shift and change, or one might take over the other completely.

Though it's likely you won't realize you're trapped inside a dream, that doesn't mean you can't fight back. Gather your courage to face down your fears or try to help those you find yourself in the company of - you might just find your surroundings steadily shifting in your favor. A weapon here, a pathway opening there, a wooden door that transforms into steel. Be careful, though: should your awareness grow that things aren't real, the world will try to consume those thoughts and you within it, twisting things further in an attempt to make you forget that you're dreaming.

The Imprint

Luckily, you do eventually wake - unsettled, damp with sweat, but at least you're safe. It was only a dream, wasn't it? For some, that might be the case. For others, you'll start to hear the sounds of the dream in the waking world, glimpse the shadow of the Entity in a reflection, feel a breath against your neck. Marks or injuries might also follow you into the physical world: dirt staining your palms from where you fell, a cut from where you were struck, dampness in your hair from the rain. These occurrences could be obvious, but they might also be so minor you feel like your mind is playing tricks.

Still - what if it isn't merely a dream? As the week goes on, whether you experience the phenomenon for yourself or not, you'll most certainly hear of it happening to your friends, loved ones, neighbors. Word reaches you of fellow Summoned being stalked from the shadows, waking up with injuries they shouldn't have, possibly even suffering a near-fatal wound in their sleep. Clearly, there's more to this than uneasy visions in the night.

The Factions

While it is each Summoned who is the focus of their Entity's ire, they are not the only ones who seem aware of its movements. The factions will soon approach each Summoned with an offer: work with them to help contain the threat and aid the suffering of you and your friends - but the one thing they cannot explain is how they have come to know about the existence of the Entity.

Will you take the offer and try to convince your fellow Summoned this is a vital path to take? Or will your mistrust of those in power have you not only refusing, but trying to prevent others from making what you believe is a mistake?

The choice is yours, but the decision might impact more than just you this time.

A separate log located here will detail the reaction of the factions and so forth. You can tag in under the specific heading for each faction.

To thread out any arguments or conflict prior to participating, please do so in this event post. The IC Faction Intervention log should be only for those actively participating in the full process.

The Horizon

When dreams are no longer an escape, desperate souls might turn to the Horizon for safety - though they may remember that, previously, the Horizon was not safe at all.

It Follows

At first, the same doesn't seem to hold true. Things are quiet in the Horizon. There is no need for sleep or dreams here. You have full control over what's formed inside your domain. However, it doesn't take long for the remnants of that horrible dream to seep into your sanctuary. A field you grew may start to turn dark, becoming nightmarish corridors. Maybe the tower you placed so carefully begins to crumble, or perhaps the reflection you see of yourself in a lake isn't you at all. You will find that despite your best efforts, your Entity has followed you into Horizon and is corrupting your domain with it.

As menacing as the presence may be, the Entity will not be able to destroy other's domains. Within yours, though, it may twist the design to varying degrees, ruining carefully laid paths, staining blood on your walls, darkening what is most important to you no matter how much you might try to change it back. Conversely, its hold may only be strong enough to be a shadow in the corner of your eye. It all depends on the strength of your nightmares and how deeply its affected your mind.

Nonetheless, the message is clear: dreams are born of your mind and your mind is what the Horizon is formed from.

The Looking Glass

Whether you see the manifestation of your Entity in full or whether your domain is barely affected by its presence, all who enter the Horizon during the course of the week will find that they are once again plagued by a flash of a vision.

This is nothing like the glimpses into another's past, however. There are no headaches, no recognizable faces. This time, the vision will flicker in and out of focus like an old television trying to find the right signal, staticky and not quite clear at first. The flashes are brief, lasting only mere seconds, if that. In fact, at first, one might even mistake it for a trick of the mind. For some, this may be all they see. For others, it may return in another burst the next time they enter the Horizon, becoming clearer each time. It might appear as soon as you step in, or it might take an hour, two.

What you see will not be anything familiar. The scene itself will never change. It is a soundless meteoric picture. You may glimpse heavy winds stirring some sand, but you will not feel it on your skin nor hear the wind. You may see a flicker of the sea, but you will not smell the sea salt nor hear the crashing waves. All in all, this image which appears to you is abstract, strange, and impossible to understand in their absurdity - except for one part: the appearance of a single Arcana sign.

Intriguingly, this sign likely does not match your own. It might not even match anyone you know at all. It is an undeniable fixture, though, appearing emblazoned on the scene somewhere, not always in the same place, but always present: seared into the ground, carved on stone, scrawled on a page.

The six available images are below and each one is labeled with the Arcana sign your character will notice when they glimpse the scene. Choose any image you like, but only one may be selected. Characters do not need to be experiencing nightmares or the Entity to see these images.

As noted, the Arcanum on the image itself does not need to match your character's. At this time, there are no real details on what the Arcanum itself means or why it's appeared, though the possibilities are endless. Everyone in Abraxas possesses one, after all.

If you want to be surprised and assigned an image at random, comment here and we will do so for you!

The Hermit

The Sun

Temperance

Death

The Lovers

The High Priestess

CODE

Comments

dean.

[gynvael]

[ How he came to be in these woods, Geralt can't say. Seems like he's been walking for hours, days, weeks. He lost his horse somewhere back there (back where?), but his sword is in his grip and that's what matters. The path winds endless through the forest. There's a sliver of a moon in the sky, hidden behind thick dark clouds. It is quiet. Eerily so. No birds, no howl of wolves. Only the wind rustles the thick leaves.

The shadows play tricks as he walks. Or he thinks, anyway: vacant eyes that stare, twisted bodies pierced on broken branches that vanish when he turns to look again. He tries to ignore it. Especially tries to ignore the flashes of ashen blond hair. He knows it isn't real. What is real is that she is not here. He's been looking. He's running out of places to look but—

He's meeting someone this time. It doesn't matter how or when this meeting was arranged. He just knows he is. And when he sees the vehicle parked in the distance, on a dirt path that's meant for wagons and carriages at most, it does not strike him as out of place. He recognizes the car—gleaming, black, rumbling engine.

Recognizes the man inside, too, when he limps up to it. Blood stains the hand that he raises to knock on the window. He waits for it to roll down before he ducks under. ] Tell me you found her.

[righteously]

( Dean looks, to put it nicely, like absolute dogshit. Before the knock he's got his arms folded over the steering wheel and his forehead resting on them, slumped. His clothes are filthy. Dirt and blood are smeared across one cheek. It's under his fingernails. It's on his neck.

When Geralt knocks, he jerks, one hand shooting out automatically to wrap around the bone hilt of a weapon he's been carrying for a year. It's only when his mind manages to process who he's looking at that his wild eyes calm again.

His hand goes to the keys. He kills the ignition, so they can hear themselves talk through the window. )

Yeah.

( He doesn't sound happy about it. Obviously, she's not in the car. Something in his expression hits just a little too solemn and serious to be earnest, but it's a close cousin. )

But something's wrong.

[gynvael]

[ Something's wrong isn't the answer he's looking for. It's the one he expects, though. His fingers tighten over where they rest on the metal roof. The pit in his stomach sinks deeper.

Last time he saw her was—

He actually can't recall. Every time he thinks back, it isn't altogether clear and yet. It's as though his mind slips by those gaps, stubbornly fills in the holes until he forgets the gaps are there at all. He tells himself when he last saw her isn't important. What matters is where she is now. He is not allowing himself to consider the alternative: that she is truly gone.

She isn't. Dean's not said that, only that something isn't right. (It's his fault she slipped out of his grasp.)

Fuck. His attention returns to Dean. There's an edge in his voice that normally isn't there. ] Explain.

[righteously]

( This ain't the type of conversation you have sitting down on the other side of a door. There's a shift, a squeak, and the Impala door opens. He steps out, and the door slams shut behind him. With him comes the sharp tang of blood Geralt can likely smell — not hard to pick up on the source. It's staining the front of Dean's shirt in a long line.

Whether it belongs to him or someone else isn't clear yet. He's moving stiffly, but that's what happens after a fight regardless. )

I tried so damn hard to get her out. ( On anyone else, they might sound pleading. Might be appealing. Dean wears a different shade of it. Confession, statement, fact. Conviction. You gotta believe him on that. ) We were close, but we got flooded. I mean, there were things I've never seen before in my life, things I-

( He shakes his head.

Things he can't even describe, not without more time than either of them want to put into this conversation right now. )

She's still alive.

( Just to take that off the table right away. )

But she was something else. It's like- man, I don't know how, I don't know why, but it's like they came from her.

[gynvael]

[ Another time, he might've expressed concern for Dean's state of being. The blood, the bruises. They're both painted in it. Right now, he's focused on nothing else except getting to her. And the more they talk, the less he wants to stand around.

Came from her. Geralt shifts his weight, glances down before he looks back up. No surprise on his face. Just something like resignation. From her, through her. Ciri has always been capable of...bringing what shouldn't be into the world. And whether that's what Dean means or not, it's how Geralt has interpreted it.

But this is different, too. Flooded indicates more than a few creatures. That's—

He shakes it off. He can't stay here. If she's alive, then he needs to get to her. He doesn't give a fuck what's coming through or not. ]

Where is she now? [ I'm going is unspoken. He'll get there one way or another, whether Dean helps him or not. ]

[righteously]

( He knows Geralt's going. If he didn't already plan on it, that would mean Dean's going. )

I can take you to the last place I saw her.

( His eyes peel away from Geralt to settle on the forest in the distance. Beyond houses, beyond hills, wagon trails and streetlights. It's lush and green, at first — but it transitions slowly into washed out grey. Desaturated, dark, unsettling to look at.

He looks back. The second most important thing he needs to impart — )

I didn't leave her. ( He needs that on record, partly because he needs Geralt to know it personally, but it's also actually relevant. ) She sent me out, or blasted me out, or something, I don't know. Point is, I don't know if she's gonna be in the same place, but... we'll figure it out. I'll get you to her.

( He shouldn't have let himself get separated in the first place. He screwed up, it's on him to fix it. )

[gynvael]

[ It doesn't even cross his mind until Dean says it. Something he can't explain—an instinctive knowledge that Dean would never have left her. Not if he could help it.

Sent him out. Yeah. She does that. Geralt sighs. ]

I know. [ And he knows Dean's only here because he asked. That he's asking for a lot, that Dean doesn't owe him anything. Geralt just—he needed his help. If it were anyone else, he'd be doing this alone. He prefers to be responsible only for himself, prefers not to drag another into danger. But it's Ciri.

In the distance, a howl cuts through the wind. First sound in awhile, but it's wrong, too. No answering howl comes in return. His gaze follows the same trail towards the end of the forest, absent of colour. A void. A body swings from a heavy branch above them, then flickers away.

He doesn't look back into the trees. Opens the side door instead. ] Come on.

[ Nothing more to be said. Dean has a location. So that's where they're going. ]

[righteously]

( That howl hits his ears and something about it makes discomfort crawl up his back. It prickles at his spine, makes the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

Seems a little stupid to be worrying about wolves right now when there are monsters ahead of them. He walls it up, and they continue on.

And so they're going. He nods wordlessly, and swings himself back into the driver's seat. The engine turns over, but the radio makes no sound. No music, no static, no tape. Just the sound of tires crunching on gravel.

It's faster than walking, but it still isn't a road made for cars. He can't put the pedal to the metal here, not when any sharp dip or fallen log could screw them over entirely. Not when the path veers sharply one way or another.

Although, he does slam the gas once in a while. Specifically, when something humanoid bursts from the tree line into the path before them, mouth wide, teeth fanged, eyes wild, hissing at them. Where most people might pump the brakes, he goes faster, slamming into the body and then driving over it with a jostling thunk-thunk. Nary so much as a flicker on his stoic expression in the process.

They don't have time to dick around right now.

Trees pass on the left and the right. Things dart between them, impossible to see but for the shadows. The headlights cast a strange, too-yellow tinge, and it doesn't feel like they're reaching as far ahead as they normally should.

It's getting darker. There's more movement along the side of the road. Something sprints up ahead, darting in their direction just in time to slam into Geralt's door. He doesn't slow down, but a muscle in his jaw flexes and his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Another body pelts them. And another. One of them cracks the glass of a back seat window. They go faster, uncomfortably quick in the claustrophobic woods.

And then abruptly, startlingly, the trees end and they burst out into clear night, wide empty space, and it.

That wasn't where they'd been when they got separated.

But now it is.

Dreams rewrite themselves as they unfold. )

[gynvael]

[ The road is barely a road. The trees seem to shift constantly, appearing where they weren't before, opening up when they looked closed from afar. Leaves and branches scrape at the windows, the roof.

In the mirror, a flash of sharp canines, dripping red. He blinks—but before he can turn around, a figure skitters across their path. The car makes him feel impossibly trapped, but there's nothing he can do about it so he just. Puts up with it and lets Dean run down the creatures in front. He doesn't know what they are. Sometimes they're twisted beings with thick claws. Sometimes he thinks they're faces he recognizes, faces that should not be here, until their mouths open into a yawning abyss ringed with too many teeth. He keeps a hold on his dagger and does not move.

One by one, the stars wink out of existence. By the time the car stops, the sky is nearly pitch black save for the hint of the moon. It's just enough light for him to make out the earth cracked in two, a wide chasm that splits the ground. A large black structure looms in front of them. Not shattered, but whole, a jagged rock that beckons.

There should not be a door in a damn rock. Somehow, there is. Doors are meant to be opened. And he needn't ask to know that Ciri is in there. So he pushes it, the heavy stone scraping as it slowly swings inward. Something inside shrieks: animal, hungry. The sound reverberates. Tells him the space within is much larger than the exterior of the monolith might suggest. Like it's hiding another world altogether.

He steps through. When he pulls his hand away from the door, it's wet with fresh blood. He pays no attention—is far too distracted by what awaits them. Limbs, littering the ground, human and not. A thin layer of black dust, like soot but denser. And beyond that, deep within at the end of the long corridor, he sees—

His grip tightens on his sword. He can hear Dean behind him. He glances over his shoulder, anyway, to be sure. ] Where the fuck are we?

[righteously]

( His boots crunch on detritus as they cross the floor — soot, bone, ash, and tiny shards of broken glass that seem to have come from a fallen chandelier. The shattered remains of it sit broken in the center of the room, the occasional arm slung up over what would have once been an impeccable, shining gold rim.

Where are they? Excellent question. Well, he knows what parts of this look like. )

Home sweet home. ( He says, adjusting the strap of a duffel bag up over one of his shoulders. It's the kind he'd carry into motel rooms or safe-houses, the kind he stocks full of gear for long hunts.

Geralt looks at him, he looks back, and then pointedly shrugs. That was a joke. The real answer- ) Do I look like I know anything? I just work here.

( The duffel bag drops to the floor with a solid whump, and he bends down to unzip it. Clicks on a flashlight, then tosses it at Geralt.

Sure, the guy may have night vision, but Dean doesn't. He pulls out a pistol. Checks the clip. Chambers a round, and slides it into his waistband. That done, he stands, flashlight in one hand and his purgatory weapon in the other. )

Sure you don't want a gun?

( There are an awful lot of doors ahead of them and, if the height of this thing was anything to go by, above them. Might come in handy. )

[gynvael]

[ Mm. Helpful. Geralt gives a grunt in reply. He gets the message. He catches the light, shining it down at the ground so as not to alert anything at the far end of the corridor. The light catches the bones littering the floor. There is a shattered skull too small to be a grown man's.

He points his light elsewhere. His gaze cuts down to the bag, then back to Dean. A beat passes. His instinct is no. He trusts what he has and that's his sword. But he can carry the gun that Dean's offering. It's not exactly a cumbersome weapon. Won't hurt to have one on hand, even if he's no plans on using it, in case Dean loses his somehow.

He takes it.

Then they're off. Geralt takes the lead without thinking twice. How many fucking doors are in this forsaken place? (Which one is Ciri in?) A rising impatience tells him he hasn't got time for this, that he wants to go to exactly where she is. But Dean doesn't know. Neither of them know. If Ciri sent Dean elsewhere, she may have done the same for herself. So he swallows down the part of him that wants to barrel in head first and starts with the first door. Heavy iron, cracked open. With some caution, he pushes the door wider. Inside are damp stone walls, a small broken window. And in the middle, a coffin. The heavy stone lid is not shut tight. In fact, it's pushed aside.

Well. Fuck. He shines his light into the coffin to be certain. Empty, except for the jewels she was buried with. A glint catches his eye, though. He reaches in. Lifts a blood-stained gold brooch, dotted with emeralds and rubies. It weighs heavier in his hand than it should. He turns it over, lingering over the piece of jewellery far too long for it to just be a passing curiosity.

He drops it back inside. Leaves the lid open because there's no point in closing it. The striga's already crawled out of her crypt. (Didn't he save her? Or did that all go to shit, too?) ]

Watch the ceilings.

[righteously]

( Color him surprised Geralt actually takes the thing. If it were anyone else, he'd be more concerned about the fact that he's never seen the guy use one. The thing is, Geralt's a smart guy — and there's a certain type of person that can make sense of just about any weapon you put in their hands. Handguns aren't rocket science, and good aim is an innate quality to that type of person.

He should still put the guy through some drills one day just to get a clearer picture on how he handles one, but that's not even close to a priority right now.

They move. Dean's used to hunting with a partner, and knows what it means to follow a lead. Geralt enters, Dean hovers at the door, half in and half out, attention split between the room and the hallway outside. Ready to run in if something goes down, but more ready to draw attention to anything headed their way from outside.

Watch the ceilings. )

Great.

( He mutters unhappily, flicking his eyes up immediately. Just ceiling tiles, a few cracked plaster, long-dead LED light panel strips. Hanging wires.

The next room's door is wide open. It's a classroom, long abandoned. Desks toppled, a strip of wallpaper circling the top with the alphabet in standard and in cursive. Bloody handprints are smeared across the chalkboard in a way that makes Dean's teeth hurt to look at.

Beyond it, a perfectly clean motel room, insomuch as a motel room is ever really clean. It doesn't strike him as off that this room is as orderly as it is, at least not at the forefront of his mind. Subconsciously, it scratches at that itch of discomfort found only in unsettling dreams. )

[gynvael]

[ He steps over shattered bits of glass, stone, splintered wood. More blood. The air is thick with it, human and beast alike. He isn't certain what he's even searching for. A sign, a trail. He'll know when he sees it. (Hopes he'll see it.) He keeps his focus on the now; dwelling on what may or may not come helps no one.

As they leave the classroom, the shadow of a wolf vanishes around a corner. Quick. He nearly misses it.

Geralt hesitates. Shines the light. More blood pools sticky and dried in the corner. He hates the idea that he's seeing things. He does not see things.

But there's no reason to chase shadows. That isn't what they're here for. He keeps moving. The room further ahead would've once been largely unfamiliar. These days, less so. He can recognize the modern lamps and furniture. It's dim, drapes drawn shut.

This time, he lets Dean enter first. He isn't certain why, doesn't much give it another thought. A feeling, maybe. He brings up the rear a few feet behind, keeping enough distance that he won't be in Dean's way if anything comes launching from the front. His eyes sweep the room while he listens for anything that might be coming. A rat skitters in the distance. Nothing else, though. For now, at least. ]

[righteously]

( Sudden movement has Dean's flashlight jerking upward, his hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon. A man steps into view from a door at the back of the room. Taller than either of them, his brow troubled, hands up in a placating kind of surrender.

"Dean?"

The weapon lowers slowly as Dean processes, hardly able to wrap his head around who he's seeing. )

Sammy?

( Sam steps into the room proper, his eyes tracking from his brother toward Geralt warily — one hand immediately makes for the weapon he's probably got in is waistband. Dean knows where his head's going, tries to cut it off at the pass. )

It's okay. He's with me.

( "Dean, his eyes-" He sounds as on-edge about it as Dean felt the first time. More so, maybe, considering which of the two of them Azazel screwed up more. )

I know, Sam. It's different. He's good, trust me. Geralt, I told you about Sam. My little brother.

( This is a dream, and Sam comes from only Dean's mind. As such, his interest in Geralt is middling. He seems unconvinced, but nods in greeting all the same.

"Dean- where the hell've you been? I've been looking for you for over a year."

He scrubs one eye with the back of his flashlight hand, his insides twisting with guilt. )

I don't know. I'm trying, man. I am. But- I can't- I don't have time to talk about that right now, okay? There's somebody here, we need to find her.

( Sam exhales through his nose, a small sound of realization. He directs his question to Geralt; "You're looking for the girl, right?" )

[gynvael]

[ What the fuck. Geralt stares right back. His wariness is for other reasons entirely—that people should not be showing up in a place like this. He met Dean in the woods, came here with the two of them alone. These doorways, he expects to be filled with monsters, corpses. Not actual people, existing as though there aren't bloodstains in the room next door.

His eyes go between Dean and. The brother. This entire exchange.

He hesitates. His mind tries to fill the missing pieces—perhaps Dean called his brother for help—but Sam says I've been looking for you over a year. If Dean has not spoken to Sam for that long, how would he know about the girl?

Of those Geralt has not trusted with this information, the only ones who know about Ciri want her. For their own reasons.

A prickle rises on the back of his neck. He shifts his weight—a subtle thing that maybe only someone like Dean would recognize as a man who's a step away from drawing his weapon. ]

What is she to you?

[righteously]

( Someone like Dean — Sam certainly qualifies. Dean picks up on the shift in air, the way Geralt's hackles raise and his body language changes. He picks up on Sam's answer, that twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders tighten in turn.

It summons from him something old and familiar, like being thrown back in time. His hands come up automatically, full though they both are, gently inserting himself between the two. )

Okay, okay, hey, let's scale it back a little, everybody's on the same team here.

( Playing mediator for his brother is a role he's donned more times than he can count. Sam's nostrils flair a little, his eyes tracking between Dean and Geralt like he's asking a question. You're really cool with this guy? Dean answers just as silently with a pointed tilt of his head; yeah, so chill out about it.

Sam gets a little prickly sometimes. Dean can't blame him. This place is screwed up and Geralt's a new face with yellow eyes.

The fact that he tends to excuse his brother for most transgressions has nothing to do with it. The fact that he misses Sam with his whole heart and can blind himself to small off things where he's concerned has nothing to do with it.

"She's dangerous," Sam warns Dean, rather than answering Geralt directly. )

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, ya think?

( Who among them here ain't?

"I'm not kidding, Dean. If you go with him, she's gonna get you killed." )

I can handle it. Nothing's gonna happen. It's under control.

( "Is it?" Sam asks, and then levels the question on Geralt again. "Is it under control? Can you look me in the eyes and tell me nothing's gonna happen to him?" )

( Before Geralt can answer, Dean barks out a reprimanding: ) Sam.

( "He's not your family, Dean. He's using you to get to his, and you're too blind to see that. You're falling for it hook, line, and sinker like you always do. I'm just trying to help you." )

[gynvael]

[ His hand goes to his medallion. Nothing. No hum. Still. As much as he trusts Dean, he trusts his instincts more.

Fuck. He hasn't got time for this, but he can't leave Dean behind. Dean might believe that's his brother, but Geralt does not. Nothing adds up. Not for how Sam is here, not for why Sam knows about Ciri. Knows she is dangerous.

Geralt is silent through the argument, says not one word. Not until he's addressed direct.

Dean cuts in. Geralt answers, anyway. He is not answering the brother, though. His eyes are fixed on Dean. The question may not be in good faith, but it's a fair one. ]

No. I can't. [ It's blunt, and without apology. He's not one to make false assurances. Things will always be dangerous with Ciri. Half the world wants her. They'll kill thousands to get to her. That's the truth.

He glances down the corridor, where they came from. Back at Dean. ] Turn around if you must. Or come with me. But you cannot stay in this room.

[righteously]

( That's part of why Dean cut him off — there's never, ever a time when people like them can guarantee one another's safety. It's the antithesis of the work they do, of the life they live, and not's not something Dean expects Geralt to bother answering.

You cannot stay in this room; he's not sure what about that gets to him the most. Maybe the fact that he hadn't realized until it's said that there's a little part of himself that wants to. Turning back was never even remotely on the table, but walking away from Sam now? After trying for so long to get back to him?

That conflict is clear, written in the reluctant divot in his brow. In the way his lips flatten, and he glances beyond Geralt toward the cluttered and haunted hallway.

Then back to the clean, familiar motel room. To his brother. )

I'm coming back for you, okay? As soon as we're done. We get her, we'll get you, then we get out.

( Most of the time, Dean sounds rock-solid in his certainty. Now, he doesn't quite believe what he's saying, and Sam picks up on that better than anyone.

"Hope I'm still here when you get back. If you get back." A year and a half is a long time. An hour and a half is a long time, too. Sam levels Geralt with one last look, hard and cold as steel. Something in his eyes glints, something Dean doesn't see. "She's upstairs. Seventh floor."

Dean reaches out to squeeze his brother's shoulder, to jostle him once. A hand curls around the back of his neck in a soft clasp, a nonverbal promise — I'll be back — and then he peels away.

Nods Geralt onward.

Let's go.

Walking out of that room's the hardest thing Dean's had to do in a while — but Sam doesn't need him right now. Geralt does. )

[gynvael]

[ Tension sits in his posture as he waits. He'll intervene if he has to, but he'd prefer not to. Frankly, if it were up to Geralt, he'd have taken down what's standing inside that room. It isn't up to him. He already knows this isn't an option. Not with how Dean's been responding to the image of his brother.

The best he can do is to make sure Dean leaves the room first. When Dean moves in towards Sam, Geralt's fingers twitch—ready to draw his sword of he has to—but nothing comes. Dean steps away, and Geralt exhales. Studies Sam one last time. Something empty rests in those eyes.

Seventh floor. He trusts it as much as he trusts what lurks in the shadows. Still. That or they search every single fucking room.

Geralt shuts the door firmly behind them. Deep down, he senses the mistake he's making as he does. There's a moment where he pauses. Considers telling Dean they should at least secure the door. That if Dean trusts him enough to walk out of the room and follow him into the depths, Dean can also trust him when he says what's inside isn't his brother.

Then the whole place shudders, a piercing scream reverberating through the walls. It's distant, far away, but the force of it ripples in the air. Only one person can scream like that. It doesn't mean she's close. He's seen that power travel miles through a monolith, and they happen to be directly inside one. But it does mean she's alive.

He moves off without a word, pressing forward. The stairs are around the corner, dark, dusty, covered with the same blackened ash and scattered debris. He shines his light up. A bony figure latched onto a wall freezes for a split second, then slithers off in a flash.

Mm. Promising.

He starts climbing, this time with his sword firmly in hand. Up and up, until they reach a sign pinned on the wall. 7. ]

[righteously]

( He casts one last look back at that closed door as they leave. That scream has him tugging his eyes away just a split second too soon to see the knob begin to softly turn behind them.

Back on the job, head focused on the mission. He's good at compartmentalizing.

He's on Geralt's heels as they ascend, beat for beat. No difference in their stamina in a dream, not really.

Together they stand by the sign that reads seven, a push-bar metal door standing between them and the floor proper. Dean offers up a silent nod.

I'm with you. Let's do this.

On the other side of the door looks like it used to be a hospital ward, probably a few seasons into the Walking Dead. Abandoned gurneys, upturned tray tables. Doors wide open, bodies scattered about, decomposed. Somewhere further down, deep within the bowels, a heart monitor beeps rhythmically.

The temperature plummets.

When he exhales, his breath fogs and curls in the air before them.

Behind the open patient doorways, things move. Shuffle. Cast shadows. They are not alone. )

[gynvael]

[ The metal bar across the door is icy under his fingertips. He pushes it open. The chill is different than that of winter: no wind, no frost. The air is stale, soaked in a acrid chemical smell. It's entirely foreign on this floor—sounds and equipment he can't recognize. Beds on steel and wheels, metal poles that lay abandoned. Some of the doors are wide open; others are shut, smears of red on the windows. Through one, he catches a flash of lashing vines. He does not look in when he goes past.

No signs of her. The ceilings and floors are absent of cracks. He's beginning to wonder if she's even here at all. Every step feels like yet another into a trap, but they're here and he can't not look. Something compels him forward where another time, he might've turned around.

The deeper they go, the more the floors seem to pulse. Spidery black veins spread through them, swelling and bursting as they walk by. Without realizing, he's following the veins—a path that leads towards a single door that is not at all like the others. Wooden, heavy, reinforced with iron and a bolted latch on the front. He knows it. He cannot say how, but he knows this door.

Slowly, he presses a palm to it. In the distance, another howl. He's hesitating. It's only a door. They should open it.

He takes a deep breath. Forces the lock until it snaps. Darkness spills out from inside. Just darkness, so thick their lights can't penetrate. Cries echo between the walls. It's somehow even colder, a chill that lodges deep in the bone. A sickly sweet smell saturates around them, like rotting herbs and burnt sugar.

His feet are frozen at the edge of threshold. He wants to slam the door shut but he can't; he finds he can't leave, either. A coppery taste rises up his throat, fills his mouth. He's imagining it, probably, but—

If Dean is saying something, he doesn't seem to hear. ]

[righteously]

( In the distant muffled nothing-sound, Dean's saying Gerry. Gerald. And then a more serious: Geralt.

He's never seen the guy zone out like this before. Not that he can remember — granted, memory is a spotty thing right now for reasons he doesn't bother exploring. All the same, it strikes a chord of concern in his chest, and he reaches a hand out to settle firmly on Geralt's shoulder. A gentle squeeze and shake, to try and bring him back to the moment. )

Hey. ( His focus shifts between Geralt's face and the darkness beyond the door, then back again. ) You okay? Stay with me. I need you here, man.

( Don't get lost in the dark. He doesn't know, can't know, but his gut says she's not down there. )

[gynvael]

[ A hand on his shoulder shakes him out of it. Geralt starts in a way he almost never does—catching Dean's wrist in his hand before he almost immediately lets go. ]

I'm fine. [ It's nothing. He slams the door shut. The screaming doesn't stop, but it's muffled. He isn't even sure Dean can hear it or if it's only him. Decides not to ask. ] Come on.

[ Where in the hell are they even going anymore? There's no trail. He just wants to make his way to her. The fear that he's been steadily pushing down keeps creeping upwards. He never should've let her be separated from him in the first place. He should've kept her closer. Now they're near the top of this rising monolith, with shadows that dart from one side to the other, and he feels no closer to finding her.

Ahead, the corridor seems to narrow. A single blinking light is in the far distance, flashing red without illuminating anything. Geralt shines his light down, trying to see if it can catch the shadows. His night vision can't make out things that vanish with the absence of light. ]

[righteously]

( I'm fine, he says, sounding totally not fine at all. Now's not the time to go prodding about that, though. They're in the field, they have priorities — but it embeds itself into Dean's mind like a splinter, the way things like this do when they impact his people.

They move on.

Dean takes up the rear, his own flashlight passing in sweeping moves across the hall before them and occasionally behind them. The sound of the heart rate monitor grows louder, its beeping as rhythmic as the flashing light, constant and shrill.

Sounds slow down. The beeping. Their breathing. Heartbeats.

He sees a lock of Geralt's hair flutter with the momentum of something coming, and instinct has him throwing a hand out. It might be the striga, or some bastardized version of it. Teeth, claws, gnarled skin, screaming, but blasted back by a flash of white light before it has a chance to come within striking range of Geralt. Not that he couldn't have handled it himself just fine, probably, but that's not a reaction that Dean ever has time to process with logical thought — it just happens, a reflex driven by an instinct to protect.

The monster goes smashing into the reinforced mesh glass of a closed hospital doorway so hard it shatters.

But that's just the beginning.

The deceptive lie of silence and stillness has been broken. )

[gynvael]

[ Dean sees it the same time Geralt feels it. He ducks to the left, right as the blinding light pierces the darkness. A hollow screech bounces off the walls. The floor starts to rattle. At first, he thinks it's only the broken glass. It is not only the glass. It is much more than the glass. The splintered debris covering the ground is mostly shining black stone, sharp as knives. They shiver together as the shadows melt into them, forming things. Things with teeth and claws and mouths that open too wide. Maybe the same things Dean had seen with Ciri, or maybe they're new. Maybe some twisted fusion of both.

Geralt doesn't stop to ask. He stalks after the creature that Dean sent through the door. It's already on all fours. Claws scrape against the tiled floors—and then something else comes from the side. He turns in an instant, slices it clean in half. The severed body hits the ground in pieces, heavy, wet. When he glances back to where the striga was, there's only glass and jagged grooves from its claws left behind. Fuck.

He spins around. The doors that line the corridor shudder. One by one, the windows on them crack, then rupture. Shards spray, whistling through the air. He dives for Dean, automatic—shielding him with his body, and then shielding himself with a burst of magic. Slivers of glass bounce off, scattering around them.

From the smashed doors, more things begin to crawl out. Their movements are stilted, stuttering. Every shriek layers atop another, an endless din.

Flooded, Dean had said earlier. A description has never held so fucking true. ]