[ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: September
Where: Cadens; Horizon; Libertas
What: thisisfine.jpg
Warnings: Blanket for Witcher canon, destruction/war imagery and related topics, etc., references to child death, NSFW marked



(( starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

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jaskier.

[gynvael]

[cointosser]

[Though Jaskier has seen glimpses of Geralt and his rather sneaky companions rarely, it had felt very... impermanent. The only thing, strangely enough, that made Jaskier feel more grounded was when the Witcher sneaked by with Mog in his arms, holding him up to the room's window so Jaskier could see him again. The gryphon wiggled, trying to get to him, but couldn't escape the Witcher's grasp.

Even when he is finally released, he cannot fully enjoy it. Scraps of his relief are carved out by the guards that accompany him from the hospital (and what a joy it is to discover what a hospital is from the inside), who, despite Jaskier's reasoning, will not leave his side. "Ordered by Marlo," one tells him stiffly. All the explanation he really gets.

So he returns home, and the guards stay outside the bakery downstairs, watching the stairwell as he goes up them. Now without bandages, or a limp, or even extra scars. Like it never happened at all.

It unnerves him a little.

As he unlocks the door, he sends a message to Geralt.] I've been released, finally. Is Mog still home? I miss the little bastard. [A beat.] And you, obviously.

[gynvael]

[ Waiting for Jaskier to be released has been a test of his patience. He's visited when he can, stayed close by otherwise in a nearby inn, and only once Dean has assured him he will help look after Jaskier does Geralt finally return home.

He hates the fucking feeling that he didn't do enough. He knows blaming himself will help no one. They can only move forward. And yet.

It's near sundown now. He's sitting in a chair, quiet, fingers wrapped around a jug of vodka. What else is there to do? Hunting is out of the question. He's been sent home by one of the attending nurses. And half the roads in Cadens are cordoned off by soldiers.

Drinking passes the time.

Then a message, scrawled across the tabletop. Geralt blinks. Looks up in time to hear footsteps. He's on his feet in a flash, taking long strides to the door as it swings open. ]

Jaskier. [ He doesn't hesitate—just pulls his friend in against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. ]

[cointosser]

Oof.

[Of course he didn't hear Geralt was already home, which means he must have been sitting here in silence. Still, Jaskier's heart beats double-time as heavy, thick arms go round him, bringing him in against Geralt's wonderfully warm chest. Contact. He's missed it, as simple as that. From anyone. All he's had is people poking and prodding at his wounds, forcing him to drink bitter potions, or helping him out of bed when his legs were still weak.

He lifts his arms and wraps them back around the Witcher. His chin rests on his shoulder.] Good to see you again, my friend. [For a moment, it is just the quiet of their creaking home, and Jaskier's breath, and the warmth of a body against his. He knows without asking that Geralt has been skulking around the hospital. It's how he found the right window to hold Mog up to.

The whole thing feels vaguely familiar. The same way he felt when Geralt opened that cell door, where he thought he would rot.

Well. He's much less angry this time. But he is still very tired.] Don't tell me you were waiting up all this time for me. You smell as if you haven't bathed in days.

[It's his usual teasing, but it comes weighted now, as if he's forcing it. (He is.) Instead, he hangs onto Geralt longer than normal societal manners dictate, simply because this feels... this feels more real than the last week has.]

dean.

[gynvael]

[ After certain words were exchanged, Geralt slips into the Horizon for the first time in a while. Jaskier is finally home, Ciri is here to keep an eye on the bard, and as much as he dislikes the bodyguards that lurk outside their door, he's accepted they aren't going anywhere.

Neither is the war. Their lives can't stop for it. So.

He knows why Dean's chosen the salvage yard. As with much these days, the Roadhouse has become...entangled. With several things. And while he normally walks or brings Roach, the rumble that greets Dean is not the usual clip of hooves. It's a bit of a different ride: a motorbike, courtesy of Nadine who created it for him seeing as he knows fuck all about vehicles or how they're meant to look. He can ride one, though, after a lesson or two. Nadine understands him well enough to have given him one that most resembles his long-time steed.

Is he possibly inching closer to understanding Dean's attachment to his car? Perhaps. Don't ask him to acknowledge it.

Either way, he doesn't announce his arrival. He never does, but he especially hasn't a need to now. ]

[righteously]

( Complicated interpersonal dynamics aren't the only reason he's sticking with the salvage yard today. Things are fucked up, and as such, Dean has a select few coping mechanisms to try and block out the exact level and nature of the fucked-uppery. Drinking is obvious. Hunting is... complicated on multiple levels right now. Third in line?

Working on his car.

He's got the Impala parked in front of the garage, hood propped up and engine exposed. Tools on a cart nearby, flannel shirt abandoned, imaginary dreamscape dirt and grime that absolutely does not need to exist and yet does smear across both his forearms and his t-shirt. Normally, he'd be too engrossed with what he's doing to even notice Geralt's usually quiet approach, but there's nothing in the whole damn Horizon distracting enough to have him missing the sound of another motor.

See, the thing is, he's all set to be in a pissy mood — and he'll probably circle back to that.

But that's a goddamn motorcycle. Not only does he momentarily forget to be miserable, he damn near clocks his head on the inside of the hood with how fast he stands up straight. )

What the...

( Cue him absently wiping his hands on the rag he's otherwise kept thrown over his shoulder, and a slow bow-legged walk toward where Geralt's bringing his bike to park. )

Gerald. What the hell is this? When'd you get a freaking Suzuki?

[gynvael]

Nadine. [ One day, Dean will need to explain to him make and models. ] A horse but fast, she said.

[ Not inaccurate. It convinced him.

He swings off the bike, leaving it parked on the side. His eyes land on Dean's car—not the first time he's seen it, but the first he's seen the insides so clearly. Curious. He's given little thought to how these things run; in the Horizon, they simply do. But he can admit the more he rides it, the more he wants to know.

Still, he came here to talk. About several things, it seems. Geralt doesn't waste much time getting to the point. If he looks damn tired even in the Horizon, it's because he is. Who in the he'll isn't these days? ]

Where do we start? [ Kidnapping, the war, or inexplicable fucking memory dreams? ]

sam.

[gynvael]

[ They've been pulled in a hundred directions, so much so Geralt's not even had a chance to speak to Sam beyond hasty messages sent and words spoken in passing. He's been so focused on Jaskier, on Yennefer, on his people.

And the reality is, all of this—he's kept to himself beyond his typical. Aside from looking in on those who need him, he's wandered alone through the bones of a broken city. Observing, lending a hand. Sometimes he sits atop one of the few standing buildings. Thinking. Considering steps he isn't sure will be viable by morning. He knows better than anyone how quickly the world can change.

So it's a coincidence that Geralt crosses paths with Sam. No surprises. The soldiers have cordoned off sections of the city, the fire and debris has cordoned off the rest. Only so many places one can even step into when searching for bodies. Geralt's been here awhile and it shows: most of his hair fallen loose, dustier than usual, and there's blood and dirt under his nails.

Sam looks as though he's moving towards the same destination as Geralt. Up the street, around the corner. An orphanage. He remembers seeing it when he was last here. It's where he brought some of the children to come listen to Nadine tell her stories.

He moves quickly—stepping over fallen beams, caved ceilings, overturned carts. Falls in beside his friend. ] Going north?

[falcony]

[ truth be told, it's not just that geralt's been keeping to himself. sam has an equal hand in how little they've seen of each other, all but diving headfirst into the simple fact of work. of familiarity in everything this supplies, in the test runs and the actual runs with his wings; for better or for worse, this is something sam is an expert in. has done too many times to count. and with the faces, the people, the numbers he has in the cities that know that side of him, it's easy to lose himself in the work.

and that's what he does, truthfully - lose himself in it. there is always something to do, always somewhere to be, and that's where his mind is when someone falls into step with him as they walk through what's left over from the city. sam blinks, pulling himself out of his own thoughts and putting himself back into the moment, to geralt at his side.

( how long has it been since he checked in with geralt? with jaskier? sam tries to remember how long ago they last exchanged messages, but it's a little hard to keep the days straight. ) ]

How'd you know? [ he says with a small smile, their steps falling in synch easily. ] Where you goin'? [ it's worth asking, if only because he and geralt have been operating under separate layers of work these last few days. sam's not even sure he knows where geralt's been, beyond the assumption it's been in the city, considering the layer of sand and grime geralt sports is roughly similar to sam's. ]

[gynvael]

You're walking north. [ Thoughtless banter. All this—it's shit, but it isn't uncommon. Not for him. The way he moves through the destruction is heedless, maybe even a little callous, stepping over broken bloodstained dolls, a limb or two, without a glance down.

Geralt has been in the city, in and out, going between looking in on Jaskier, Ciri, Julie, Dean even ever since the man somehow got himself nearly lit on fire and Jayce had to put a new set of lungs into him. Or whatever the fuck magic he performed. It's fine. There's simply been...

A few incidents. Almost a relief to be walking without some crisis looming on the horizon. (Yet.)

He indicates eastward in answer. Sam must know the orphanage is there, that most of it's caved in. Hardly the sturdiest building in the city even while it was standing. He doesn't explain his reasons. Doesn't think he needs to why he's going past all the rubble to that area in particular. ]

altair + viktor; quest.

[gynvael]

[ Though Geralt hasn't any need of hounds, he's occasionally taken along a dog—mostly because Julie will insist she's found him the perfect one. He doesn't much mind. They're good hounds, and he prefers the companionship of an animal over people any day. That goes doubly so right now. He is not eager to listen to opinions and debates and thoughts on the war, on Thorne, on anything.

It's all the same.

At the moment, he's without a hound having returned his last one not long ago. He's allowed himself to be directed to a section of the city he's been told is lacking in hands. The fires are out, leaving behind smoldering ruins, thick ash, crumpled metal and stone and cracked roads. Overturned wagons. A familiar scene. He's ridden through dozens of towns and villages just like this. The difference is he rarely stops in them to dig through the rubble. But things have changed since he last walked the Continent.

It's near the southern edge of Libertas that he spots a familiar figure ahead. He pauses, decides why the fuck not. Comes up behind the man, stepping atop a small pile of debris. ]

Observing or helping? [ No judgment for either choice. He's simply curious. ]

[aquilus]

[Altaïr is used to facing the horrors of wars. Even if the walls of Masyaf keep his home well protected from direct battle, he has spent enough time in the contested cities to see what it does to those who claim no affiliation with the forces that do battle for their god. He knows that he can't save everyone, that directly joining the conflict will only stoke the flames of war, and that there are better ways to lessen the bloodshed. That doesn't mean it leaves him unmoved, then or now. Even if he doesn't show it.

He's crouched at the lower end of a slope, peering at debris that goes further down — there must have been underground storage for these buildings to collapse into. Maybe dungeons. It would be dangerous to venture inside any of the gaps and crevices on his own, but he stares into them, unblinking, with his second sight. He has no idea if it will work this way — if the "glow" he sees in his mind's eye, alerting him to the true intention of whoever he's looking at, will activate if he cannot see the body it emanates from in the dark. But he has to at least try.

There's a light scuff of footsteps behind him. Altaïr doesn't bother to look back when the newcomer speaks; he recognizes the voice from a rather memorable encounter.]

Not much of either at the moment. [There's not much to observe that can't be gleaned in a single glance at the devastation, and so far he hasn't been much good at aid, either.] But helping, or trying to.

[gynvael]

[ Geralt crouches down, as well. Peers into the same yawning pit. No heartbeats. Not much else to make out from under the heavy rubble. Maybe a limb or two, he thinks. Beneath the blood and smoke and decay, he can smell the faint remnant of molasses, the sharpness of alcohol. Whatever this place once was, it had plenty of rum to go with it.

Gambling hall, perhaps. Libertas had its fair share. ]

Seems we're destined to meet over corpses.

[ So to speak. It's a dark sort of humour, the kind that comes from several decades too many of watching people and kingdoms collapse around him. At least Libertas has an entire army mobilized to rescue and rebuild. Many places are not so lucky, left to languish in the aftermath. They waste away, abandoned by the few survivors, until all that's left is rotting wood, half-buried bones, overtaken by ghouls and crows that come to feast.

He's been watching for that, too. Monsters drawn in by the stench of death. ]

nero.

[gynvael]

[ The Horizon has steadily become a simple way to remove himself from the world outside. And it isn't that he's ignoring what's happening—he isn't; it's not his nature—but he misses leaving behind the world itself. When he would travel to Kaer Morhen in the winters and spend a few months behind walls that offer a reprieve from what lies outside them.

In a sense, the Horizon has begun to serve the same purpose.

He takes his motorbike instead of Roach this time. Circles the Horizon on a road that isn't a road. It forms beneath the wheels, an almost subconscious thing as he rides. He's going nowhere in particular—taking in the new structures that have risen in the past few weeks.

Only when he spots an elongated vehicle, parked in the middle of nowhere, does he stop. A lit sign hangs on the side. He thinks he knows who it belongs to before he spots the head of white hair within.

Of course.

The bike rumbles as he pulls up to the window. Peers inside. ]

New phone booth? [ He's not serious. Possibly hard to tell, though. ]

[vengeanceinside]

[It's embarrassing as hell to admit it -- and maybe he really ain't admitting to it, in the end -- but the van's the first thing he really meant to make. And he spent some time on the thing, making sure every detail was perfect. Every scratch, stain, spot of dirt. Even some cracked glass where one of his bullets had ricocheted.

The mobile Devil May Cry is perfect. She's not really open for business, but she's perfect. (She's home on the road.)

The inside has a surprisingly poppy song playing on the jukebox, the faint smell of cigarette smoke enough to make itself known, but not to choke him. He's leaned back in the passenger's side seat, boots propped up on the dash with one tapping against the windshield to the beat of the song.

And then a big puff of smoke blows into his face as the roar of an engine pulls up. His heart swings into his throat as he coughs, fanning it out of his face.] Fuck, Nico, chill out! Guy's not gonna ram us.

[Yeah, he's talking to the air.

Shit.

Nero rolls down a window to peep his head out. The last thing he expects is Geralt astride a rather sweet fuckin' bike, 'cause what he was expecting was Dante.

He cracks a grin so the tightness in his chest doesn't show.]

What, you think anything with wheels is a phone booth? Come on, man! [At least from Nero leaning out the window, Geralt cannot see the tail attached just above his ass that's dragging across the van's floor. Nero pats the outside of the passenger door.] This baby's all mine.

[Smoke, distinctly smelling of cigarettes, seemingly puffs out behind him and flies directly into his face. Nero coughs. Ours. He doesn't correct himself.] And here I thought you were some weird-ass cowboy. Sweet ride. Make her yourself?

[gynvael]

[ As often seems to be the case with Nero, there are several things to take in in the space of a minute: one, the pipe smoke that's spilling out of the open window; two, the name Nico despite the fact that no one else is in this vehicle; and three, that Nero is sitting not in front of the wheel as expected but in the seat next to it.

Hm. ]

Gift. [ The only reason it looks as accurate as it does, engine included. He does not mention that he hasn't any idea, even now, what in the hell a cowboy is. He's heard it from a variety of folk, which suggests they exist in multiple spheres. Just not his. He imagines it's another term for a farmhand or a stablehand. Perhaps it's a thing amongst those who no longer commonly ride horses as transport.

He still takes Roach, of course. But in some ways, he now prefers his bike in the Horizon, if only because the real Roach is in the physical world. He only created her in the Horizon because he'd not had a horse, initially, when he'd built Kaer Morhen. (He missed her.) But, mm. It is strange to have two identical horses, one of which is a figment of his mind. Not unlike if he made a Jaskier in here when the real one is out there. ]

You finally learned to create in here. [ He assumes. Nero appears pleased with the vehicle's presence unlike the phone booth. ] I'm almost impressed.

julie.

[gynvael]

[ Only so much good can come from being in Libertas day in and day out. They need to take a breath. Someone else will be there to fetch the hounds and dig through the rubble. Besides, Roach needs to stretch her legs. Ciri is off on her journey for the city—a trip that makes Geralt wary, though he's not stopped her; she can take care of herself, and he's aware she needs something purposeful to occupy her time after everything—and while he could go alone, he isn't planning on an extended trip. Not even a hunt. Just a half day or so into the hills away from the smoke and ash.

It's Julie he winds up asking. They've spoken of it in the past—letting her practice her magic on some proper beasts. Now seems a good reason as any. They could both use the distraction. And since that first night after they returned from Nocwich, he's been worried about her. Not for any real reason. Just...on the whole. Given all that he knows of her past.

He meets her at the gates in the morning atop Roach. He's tossed on his cloak to keep off the sun and dust, but is otherwise dressed lightly. With how often he goes in and out, the soldiers don't look at him twice. He can sense, though, as they ride that there's something on her mind. Something other than the usual since all this shit's started.

Maybe. He isn't sure. He's been distracted, too, these past weeks, not quite present the way he normally is. ]

[princessvegas]

[ The night they'd come back from Nocwich was the closest she's been to a true breakdown since she and Nadine came to Cadens. It wasn't that she didn't understand why they all wanted to run to Jaskier's side -- of course she understood. But the military was already swarming the city, and they'd been specifically told to stay home, and after a night spent dwelling on just how alone in the universe she was, all Julie could see was the lot of them thrown in cells.

It came out as anger, of course, as nearly all her negative emotions do; she'd screamed and slammed doors and generally behaved poorly until everyone gave in and stayed put until morning.

Since then, she's carried a very real sense of shadow over her usual perkiness. She doesn't want people to be worried about her. There is so much else to think about, and more than that, she doesn't want to shine a spotlight on the fact that she's weighed down. The bigger problem is, there are so many things weighing on her that Julie can't even figure out what's affecting her the most deeply.

The attack. Her worry over the people she cares for. The fact that she's still not speaking to Sam. The unsettling conversation she had with that Istredd. Her loneliness. All of it.

So she doesn't think that hard when Geralt invites her out. For almost a year, Julie's expended huge amounts of her energy trying to not to throw flames at unsuspecting creatures, but she is a redneck from the middle of nowhere -- she knows how cathartic it is to just fucking blow some shit up. Enormous scorpions certainly strike her as explodable.

She also does desperately need to take Baron out. It was easier in Nott, a substantially smaller city with a more pleasant climate and less threat of bandits outside of the city walls. She would take hours-long rides along the edge of the lake and in the fields outside of town. But here, it's a much more onerous task.

Julie hasn't been outside the city walls since she came back from Aquila, and not since her initial arrival has she been out without an entire caravan of people. So she's happy to throw a scarf over her hair and meet Geralt at the gates, smiling as she puts all the other gloom hanging over her on the back burner. ] Hey.

[gynvael]

[ He's not given much thought to her behaviour that night. Not that it hadn't concerned him then—he'd stayed for a reason, hadn't wanted to frighten her any further than she already was—but because Libertas was lit ablaze only minutes prior and they watched it happen. Can't begrudge tempers flaring. He probably wasn't at his best, either.

As is his nature, once she appears to have put it behind her, so does he. So long as she's all right in the end, that's the only thing which matters.

His head tips in greeting when she joins him. She looks tired, he thinks, but aren't they all? He doesn't ask, just sets off when she's ready. He keeps pace with her as they ride—has also packed a few extra items on her behalf in case anything happens. Beyond accompanying him, he's glad this indicates she's willing to continue her magic. He'd not been certain if the seer's words had dug too deep into her apprehensions. ]

It's an hour or two out. We'll return well before dark.

[ Yes. He did scout a nest for her the day before. (A small one.) Necessary to avoid surprises. He'd wanted a trail that was not too rough to ride, and he may have removed one or two larger threats to keep the area clear. The path is now one of the safer ones out here. ]

dean; post-fire.

[gynvael]

[ Their last conversation may have ended on a sharp note, but not in a way where Geralt finds it bothersome. Perhaps it's because on some subconscious level, Dean fills the role of a...(brother), of the kind of people he grew up with—stubborn, ill-tempered, easily provoked where matters of loss and attachment and fear roll up to form one dark heavily fucked mass. He isn't much different. He's been tangled in far more vicious fights with them. It happens. Sooner or later, they sort themselves out.

He understands where Dean's coming from. He just can't do what Dean wants from him, in the same way he knows Dean will never be all right with him putting himself in harm's way for Dean's sake. They are who they are.

He doesn't rush the matter. Geralt is nothing if not patient; he can let the dust settle. That aside, Dean needs to recover even after Jayce's healing magic, he's things to take care of himself, and it isn't as though Dean's going anywhere. A few days pass before he reaches out with something not particularly vital. Supposes he'll see where they stand, on Dean's end, by the reply. Or lack of one if that turns out to be the case. ]

Your Signs coming along?

[righteously]

( They are who they are. He's had this fight before — with Sam, with Cas, with whoever. Not the first time, won't be the last. It means that while he's content to stew in his own juices for a couple days, he's not about to actually carry much of a grudge. The argument is unresolved, but he's aware of the fact that it's probably gonna stay that way. There's no point being all bitchy about it long-term, no point beating that dead horse right now.

A little too salty to reach out first, but nowhere near enough to play the silent treatment game.

So begins the default strategy of Don't Even Talk About It, pretend it never happened and move on until it becomes a problem again. )

Nope
Thought I had it for a second there but it turned out to be a sneeze
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing

[gynvael]

[ They're on the same page where strategy is concerned. When Dean responds without much delay, Geralt considers the matter put behind them. For now. ]

Come to Kaer Morhen.

[ They've been training in the desert, but the situation is less than ideal for going outside the city to learn Sign magic. Too many soldiers. They're unlikely to do much—he knows some of them, has learned familiar faces after all this time crossing the desert and back—but where the military is concerned, Geralt prefers to stay out of their way. Simpler. No point in risking it if he needn't.

The Horizon will do in the interim.

This time, he waits outside by the training yard. A light snowfall drifts from the sky; the snow on the ground is persistently fresh with footprints that fade within hours. The only exception are the paw prints that belong to the wolf—those crisscross often over the grounds, marking where the wolf has gone. At the moment, it's hidden between a thicket of trees. Dean had not seemed eager to befriend it, so. At a distance is where it remains.

He nods, eyes Dean when the man arrives, as if he can somehow scan him for any remnant of injury inside the Horizon. Habit. He wastes little time otherwise getting to business. ]

Show me what you have.

steve harrington.

[gynvael]

[ New visitors to his domain are not common. He receives them from time to time, but Geralt keeps to himself inside the walls of Kaer Morhen, doesn't go out of his way to invite others, rarely greets anyone who passes by the front gates.

This time, though, he's atop one of the wooden pillars high over the snowy grounds beneath. He has his sword in hand—no longer his blade from home, with its golden brooch, but the one he owns in the real world, which instead bears Jaskier's gifted wolf pendant on the hilt. Meaning from his perch, he can look down and see who's walking through the snowy pass. In fact, he is looking down at the very moment the boy beneath looks up. They lock eyes, thus preventing Geralt from not acknowledging his presence.

Hm. He recognizes that face. The one he had to escort to the inn.

He lowers his sword to his side. Continues to observe in silence, as though he's trying to determine if Steve will want to go on or stop in. On the ground, a large, somewhat disheveled, white wolf trots up to Steve and also looks at him. ]

[hairington]

[ it is not steve's first time in the horizon, which means that he has a bit more of his wits about him as he starts to wander. he'd heard that every one of the summoned have a space in here, a kind of 'domain', they called it, and when steve asked if it was allowed to just sort of walk around, he'd been told that yeah, pretty much. you didn't want to be weird about it, and if someone told you to leave, you should probably leave, but beyond that, don't be a dick. steve takes that as an opportunity - to look for others, maybe dustin or robin, maybe anyone else - because he'd definitely be able to tell if anyone from his home was around based on whatever weird mind palace thing they thought up. right?

so it's on one of the nights out on his supply run, when he's not on watch and when he has a few hours to himself that steve is...not bored, necessarily, but restless. unable to get settled. so he decides to go spend some more time in the horizon.

it's how he ends up wandering into what looks like some kind of...castle? in the snow? steve supposes he could turn around, but he's also trying to figure out his way around the imagining bit, about how anything you think up could be real, here, and there's nothing specifically bad about the place either.

that is what leads him to where he is - standing at the base of what looks like very large pillars, and a man standing at the top. not just a man, but...the werewolf he met back in nocwich. steve squints a little, trying to make sense of it - wanda had said this place was only for summoned, people like them. that none of the locals could come in here. but the large white haired werewolf is staring down at him, like he isn't just a part of the imagined bits. then why...?

movement catches steve here on the ground, and he tenses a little before he catches sight of the large white...actual wolf. who is trotting on up to him and looking at him. steve's eyes go from the man up on the pillars to the wolf here on the ground before he decides, proximity-based, to focus more on the wolf and he squats down - holding out his hand like he would a regular dog on the streets back in hawkins. ]

Hey. [ he greets the wolf, waiting to see its reaction. and then, a moment later. ] Are you a guard-wolf? [ wow, harrington. not dumb at all. steve glances up to the man again, then back to the wolf, his hand still held out. ] Do you want me to leave?

[gynvael]

[ Another second passes. The wolf stands there, silent—though if there's anything in Steve's pockets (food, specifically), it'll sniff for it. Geralt drops down the wood beams, one, then two, before he hits the ground. There's a chance, now and again, when he meets someone new they haven't got their memories. A rare chance. He can't remember the last time that's ever occurred. (Not since Yennefer.)

But Steve seems to recognize him. He also seems surprised by something—like he doesn't expect to be where he is or see what he's looking at. ]

No. [ Geralt's sword hangs loosely by his side. ] Lost again?

[ How does one get lost in the Horizon? He doesn't know, but the truth is, he's beginning to think Steve always looks as if he's newly stepped off a ship and found himself on an unknown land.

Whatever the reason, Geralt waits, patient but expectant, for an answer. ]