Wᴇʟʟ, I'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴅɪɴ'

[righteously]

Who: Winchester & Co.
When: September
Where: Free Cities, Libertas, & the Horizon
What: Quests, training, or Roadhouse socializing.
Warnings: Suicidal tendencies, alcoholism, other psychological traumas.

Aɴᴅ I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇs I'ᴍ ᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ
Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ɢᴏᴇs ᴏɴ ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ
Aɴᴅ I'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ
Bᴜᴛ I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʟᴇᴛ 'ᴇᴍ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍᴇ, ɴᴏ
Nᴏᴛ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʟᴇᴛ 'ᴇᴍ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪᴅᴇʀ

Comments

[wiedzminka]

[ Well. At least there's that. At least it isn't Dean's fault, what happens next.

And it happens all at once.

The device lands, bounces, and begins to glow, little metal bits shifting and expanding. Ciri understands what it is. She considers, for a split second, making a dash for Dean and portalling them both out, even with the consideration that they might end up in the ocean again. Pivots on the toe of her boot as soon as she lands, toward Dean--

Only to have the body of the final bandit crashing between them, atop the device, while Dean fucking grows wings. A flash of brilliant white in the smoke. Ciri opens her mouth to call his name again; it becomes a shout of surprise when something unseen strikes her, and she goes sailing through the open door, the heat from the blast following almost immediately.

Ciri lands with a yelp, skidding across the cobblestone walkway into the lawn, instinctively curling and covering her head as rubble explodes in all directions. Smoke and blood fill the air above, while she fumbles through the shock to form the sign for Quen and shield herself from at least some of it.

Fuck. Dean.

Staggering to her feet, one arm over her face, Ciri surveys the damage. There's a whole chunk missing now. The building leaning dangerously. When she tries to run forward, the sheer force of the heat comes up like a wall, and she chokes, dashing around the side to try to see beyond the raging fire for a glimpse of Dean or wings or anything. ]

Dean!!

[righteously]

( The good news? Those giant ass obnoxious piece of crap wings did what he needed them to do — kept any shrapnel that guy's corpse couldn't block from impaling him or singing straight through his dome. The bad news is, what looks like the splintered leg of a table or a chair that would've probably gone for his head pierced straight goddamn through one of them, pinning him to the door frame.

And boy, that explosive did nothing to help this house be any less on fire, did it? There's practically a wall of flame between him and Ciri; he can barely hear her over the crackling and the groaning.

It's a matter of time before this bitch is coming down. Even if she could find a way to artfully maneuver through the flames, she's not gonna do any better of a job than he is trying to rip the stake out.

Immediately, unthinkingly, he calls: )

I'm fine, just get the hell outta here!

[wiedzminka]

[ Ciri doesn't believe he's fine, but-- she is very much relieved that he's capable of answering. For now, it'll have to be enough.

She's already shifting her attention just enough to send a very brief, very urgent message to Geralt. Cross-streets. Need your help. Now. It's Dean.

The fire pushes her back further, as she gags on the heat and the smoke, and she knows Dean is going to choke to death in there soon enough, even if he's not been burnt up or crushed by now.

She wants to keep talking to him, to make sure he's still okay, but Ciri understands that he probably shouldn't be wasting his breath shouting. Instead, she waits impatiently for Geralt, backing up away from the conflagration. Her own injuries are superficial -- scrapes and bruises, made more dramatic to look at when she's covered in ash and dirt and blood.

When Geralt arrives, the conversation is brief.

She's fine. Dean's in there. She's going to get Jayce. And then, she does. ]