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

Entry tags:

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

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

( At some point, the group splits up. He's separated from Nadine, from Jayce, from Jo — possibly because he catches sight of platinum hair a ways off, and it looks like she's solitary. Obviously she's capable, probably more so than Dean, but that matters exactly not at all to him. The city's burning, buildings are still falling, combing through this joint is safer with a partner.

(He made a promise.)

He tries not to acknowledge the ways in which it feels like the dream they shared once. It helps that they're not running now, that it's a slow and methodical recovery mission.

Speaking of which.

Down one street, they catch the sound of yelling. Help, oh god, please help. The houses here are larger than the rest, practically freakin' mansions. Obviously the wealthy part of town. Good and bad — it means a couple dozen more rooms to potentially comb through, but that a lot of them aren't fully engulfed yet.

A skinny guy stands on the walkway before one such building, waving his arms to flag them down. )

( He's screwed.

It's one of those massive houses, probably some merchant or politician or something. Too many bedrooms — or at least there used to be, before the whole damn thing went up in flames. It started out as just the stupid goddamn wings that got him pinned, one splintery shard of something that went clean through into the floor doorframe. He doesn't know how to bamf them back in yet, so he went with the coyote leg in the bear trap method — pulled out his sword, braced himself, and hacked a god damn line clean through it so he could rip it off of the stake.

Just in time for the rest of the doorway to come crashing down on top of him. The wings disappear from existence then, because of course they do, and then it becomes smoldering support beams collapsed on his hips, too heavy for him to heave off of himself no matter how hard he bares his teeth and shoves. Flames start to lick their way up one of his legs, cooking the fabric and skin in equal measure. The smoke's getting to be too much; having his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth isn't doing a god damn thing to keep him from inhaling it, from coughing, from starting to get light-headed.

At least he got her out. There's no point trying to send anyone a message, who the hell's gonna make it in time? What are they gonna do, put out the whole friggin' fire? The only alternative is to run balls first into total conflagration, and there's no way in hell he's saving one person from it just to turn around and get another to run back in and get them both killed.

It is what it is. It was gonna happen sooner or later anyway.

And you know what?

Hell, maybe it's appropriate. After all, he's hardly the first Winchester to bite the dust in a housefire. Maybe it's apt that he's going the same way as his mom.

If he's completely honest with himself, maybe a small part of him is relieved. That mark on his arm can't do a goddamn thing if he's dead, right? He won't have to worry about what it might do to him anymore. Purification by fire.

Good. )

Edited 2022-09-12 23:43 (UTC)

[ She's been working with various groups on and off, keeping busy, carrying supplies and combing through rubble and going wherever she is needed. It's chaos. Sephiroth had warned her, and her own experiences have left it all too easy to imagine what she'd be walking into, but stepping out of that portal into the ashes of a city she'd happy visited only weeks ago still makes her stomach drop, sick and heavy. It is a weight she carries, never easier for its familiarity.

When Dean joins her, Ciri doesn't even greet him. They work together, and she is mostly quiet, serious, efficient.

It's the call for help that draws her, at some point. She glances at Dean briefly, catches his eye. He heard it too. ]

What is it? [ She asks the man in the walkway, syllables clipped and urgent. He doesn't appear heavily injured; he's calling help for someone else. ]

Lead the way.

[ As Geralt's stepping over a newly removed wall section, Ciri's hasty words scrawl across the broken stone. A pause. He knows the place. He's been by the manor, seen it in passing before the city fell to pieces. She tells him little of the situation; she doesn't have to. If she's asking for his help, it's serious.

Naturally, Dean somehow finds the one fucking building completely consumed by living flames to be crushed beneath.

He moves quickly, navigating over cracked walls and piles of debris. The thick smoke fills the sky from miles away. He can feel the heat as he approaches. The fire's undoubtedly drawn attention, though with half the city's roads collapsed, he can't wait for soldiers who may or may not arrive in time. Ciri leaves quickly for more help, and he lets her—glad he's taught her better than to dive into the inferno—while he circles the building. Time is of the essence, but he knows not to go in blind.

The near-invisible shield that flares to life is a touch more than his usual. Larger—covering more of him, keeping the flames at bay. It's still scorching, the smoke thick, but at least he can move through the fire. He drops to his knees. ]

Dean. [ Fuck. He lets the shield fall. Forces his hand under the beam to push it off. His palm sizzles, wood splinters embedding in his palm. ]

( In any other circumstances, maybe he'd be more wary. Maybe he'd have paid better attention to the guy's body language, and that high perception stat he's rocking would've kicked into gear. As it stands, all he sees here are victims. All he thinks about is the job he's got to do, and there's no time to analyze.

They exchange glances, but not words. A moment later, they fall into step as the guy leads them through the massive house.

It's my wife, I can't get to her, please, I can't get the door open!

There is no wife. What there is instead is three assholes with swords waiting for the two of them to walk in so they can slam the door and block them from exiting — and a demand: give us your shit or burn.

He's gotta hand it to them, it's smart. There's a time limit here that's rapidly approaching, that sense of life or death urgency that really screws with the appeal of an argument. )

( Fun fact, a pretty high percentage of deaths by house fire aren't caused by the fire itself, but rather the smoke inhalation. Thankfully, there's about two hundred percent less asbestos and lead paint floating around out here in Middle Earth, but it's still doing a number on him. He's a little drunk on it, his head's throbbing. Eyes stinging and watering, chest aching from it, and it'd be nice if things could just hurry along here because he's straight up not having a good time right now. He'd rather pass out before that flame starts creeping up his leg to territory thus far uncharted by fire.

He's excluding Hell from that track record, obviously.

He's just about teetering on the brink by the time Geralt makes it inside, and it takes him about two seconds longer than normal to process it. It's just a blurry face and blonde hair shadowed by a writhing, flickering chiaroscuro thanks to the flames making one hell of a backdrop to this photo. He thinks, for one alarmed moment, that it's Ciri and he didn't actually get her out.

Thankfully, he manages to focus before that stomach-dropping dread can hit. In its place, a sluggish, agitated confusion. As Geralt works to heft that burning beam off of him, his reward is a mumbled: )

The hell are you doing, man? Get outta here.

( The house is burning down, dumbass. )

[ As it turns out, the panicked skinny man is an exceptionally good liar. The building they approach is smoldering visibly, the roof collapsed, but the lower levels are in one piece enough that the door opens--

And shuts, securely, when they enter. An ambush.

Ciri swears, drawing her dagger in a flash. Her sword isn't on her; she'd had no reason to bring it with her when her goal here is aid and rescue, not fighting beasts. But she is never unarmed.

They go for her first, the smaller target, perhaps some misguided attempt to take a hostage. Ciri dodges neatly out of the way of reaching hands, spins, and slices across the closest man's underarm and shoulder. Dodges again to avoid the spray.

A beam above creaks ominously as something collapses above them, the crash and crackle of the flames eating through the upper floors. The smoke stings her nose. They need to finish this quick. ]

[ What's he doing? What does it look as though he's doing?

Geralt gives the beam a hard shove. It shifts an inch, two. He glances upwards—makes sure he isn't disturbing anything that'll bring even more of the damn place caving down. The flames are spitting, the smoke so thick he can't so much see Dean as hear him. He ignores the heat scorching his hands—just pushes until the beam cracks through the wood atop and he forces it off. Bits of wood clinging to the roof begin to fall, crashing around them.

(It's funny. Fire's never bothered him. But hearing the way pillars and beams crumble into ash under the crackling flames digs up old wounds.)

He reaches through the gap in the flames. Grabs Dean by the arm. Can he walk? They'll find out—but Geralt won't hesitate to throw Dean over his shoulder if he must.

His stare is hard, leaves no room for argument. Let's go. ]

( He's got his rifle strapped to his back, but there's no time for him to swing it around before they start getting hands on her. Even if he could, he can't fire it in here — too high a chance he might hit her, or the bullet might slam into something that screws with the structural integrity that's already getting pretty goddamn precarious.

He doesn't go straight for the guy aiming for her — he knows she's a fighter, that she can handle herself for a second while he goes for the guy closest to him. Gotta get him out of the fight, because if they gang up on her it's gonna start getting way harder to manage. She's quick, but she's small. Raw power in confined spaces is more his forte, he thinks.

They grapple. The guy lands an elbow to his gut.

And that's about when he starts to feel it.

That draw, that desire. That hunger that hasn't been satiated in too long. For a split second, he wishes for the blade that pairs with this mark, for the brutality and efficiency he could get with it, but that's okay.

He'll still get something out of this.

Doesn't even think to fight it — why would he? Taking these guys out is what needs to happen. He needs to do this. It's natural, it's right.

So he gives in. The brand on his arm does not glow, but it does seem angrier. More fresh. More raw.

He's fast. One boot to the guy's knee, and a disgusting crack as it splinters under the force. He twists neatly under the hold the guy's got on his arms, weakened now from the blow. Uses it to swing an elbow up and break his nose. Blood starts flowing almost instantly, and it's satisfying. One of the others makes to help his buddy, just to get a knife to the side for his troubles.

(He doesn't even remember pulling it out of his boot.)

He snarls, adrenaline and rage overpowering pain for the moment — and that anger drives him to smartly target not Dean but the girl with him. Figuring if he can get her at knife point, this whole thing will turn in their favor. He reaches, and Dean's at his back in a second to slam his head into a beam.

The floor above them groans.

He doesn't hear it, doesn't process it yet. They're still alive, so it isn't important. )

( He's not gonna fight it. Not once the beam is off of him, not once there's a hand reaching out to pull him from the flames. He's self-sacrificial, but he's not outright suicidal, at least not enough to turn down help once it's already there.

It's a theme, isn't it? Kind of a trend. Weird thing to happen twice, something greater than himself plunging into the fire and chaos to reach out a hand and pull him free. Help he didn't ask for, help he wouldn't have drug into something that felt like a foregone conclusion.

He's disoriented, but not enough that it keeps him from reaching back and gripping Geralt by the forearm to help haul himself up.

Holy crap does that give him the spins. It's like standing up after you've had too much to drink, and it all hits you at once as soon as you're vertical. Doesn't help that one of his legs is screwed up — but he can still walk on it, though the pain combines with the vertigo and has him staggering.

As much time as he's spent hunting with a partner, with Sam, it's a natural instinct to fling an arm over Geralt's shoulder to use him as a crutch. To hang on a little too tightly. Something stable, to help guide his lame ass out somewhere he can't even see.

Debris falls from the ceiling in increasingly larger chunks — plaster, wood, some of it seems to aim toward crashing down directly on Geralt. Crumbling rapidly behind them in hefty, fatal (to a human, anyway) weight.

Impeccable timing, there, Gerald. Twenty or thirty seconds would've made all the difference, and it would've been another body recovery mission. )

[ A handful of amateur would-be bandits relying on brute strength alone wouldn't have been a problem for Ciri-- except the small snag of only having her dagger (and a couple of boot-knives, honestly) to fight with. Not that the sword would have been too useful in this small space anyway. And then there's the smoke-- Doesn't matter. She's ready to dispatch as many as needed, confident they won't be able to lay hands on her.

But it's Dean who turns out to be trouble. Getting over-enthusiastic with the takedowns, he slams into one of her opponents with unnecessary force as Ciri sidesteps out of the way. She's been wielding her blade with expert precision, targeting arteries and weaknesses, careful of her surroundings, and thus her first reaction is not gratitude, but annoyance. ]

Dean!

[ She hears the crack though. The wood settling and groaning above them. ]

You idiot! We have to get out of here.

[ Dazed and bloody, the wall of a man under Dean's hands thrashes and swings out blindly with his knife at Dean's face, trying to grapple him in place with the other arm.

The skinny fellow who'd lured them here in the first place -- his face twisted up in rage and what Ciri realizes suddenly is grief, his eyes on one of the bodies -- pulls out some sort of mechanical device. He's opened the door again, standing outside and shouting something barely comprehensible about them being crazy fuckers, how they're going to pay.

Ciri doesn't know what it is. She doesn't care to find out. She moves to run after him, but then he throws the thing, and instead, Ciri instinctively jumps back. ]

[ There's a second where Geralt isn't certain Dean will get up in time before the whole fucking place crumples in flames. He's debating what in the hell to do then—he sure as fuck isn't abandoning Dean—but then Dean stumbles to his feet. Geralt pulls him out, away, as the roof caves in. The explosion of sparks and ash and splinters showers behind them.

With most of Dean's weight leaning on him, one arm supporting, he can't channel a Sign the same way. Which makes the wall of flames a problem. It's grown higher in the minute it took for him to reach Dean.

His eyes scan for some kind of opening. He can feel the fire lick; even for him, it's becoming hard to breathe. Debris falls, but if anything strikes him, he pays no attention. (He'll notice it afterwards.) He spins on his heel—hauls Dean along. No time to be gentle; if Dean's leg worsens, they can fix it when they've escaped. They can't fix a corpse burnt to a crisp. He shoves a door with his shoulder. Not into the open air, but at least this room is marginally less ablaze. It allows him, at least, to press his palm against the cracking heated wall: a burst, once, twice, that shatters the surface. The wall breaks apart, crumbling.

Geralt half-drags, half-shoves Dean through the opening. Zero delicacy—they stagger out, and he only just keeps Dean from hitting the ground. ]

( He barely hears her through the tunnel vision. All he sees is the guy's face, eyes still open, heartbeat still pounding, and priority number one is taking him down. At least, right up until the corner of his eye spots that projectile. Much later when he replays it, he'll wonder if he'd have been fast enough (or strong enough) to react the way he does if it weren't for the mark. It's still early days, it can't be doing much, but... maybe.

Whatever it is bounces off of the wooden floor and rolls into the room.

He manages to do exactly three things with only a window of seconds to think. Excuse him if somebody suggests a better plan in hindsight, but it's not like he had a nice strategy session. He moves on instinct.

Phase one: he grips the guy he's holding by the shirt, twists, and flips the son of a bitch over his shoulder to land on top of whatever it is.

Phase two: for the first time with any real intention, those stupid god damn wings pop out and flair up to cover his own head in preparation for what comes after phase three.

Phase three: in the same fluid movement, he twists to throw a hand out and vigilantly rebuke (read: yeet) Ciri straight out the goddamn door. It won't feel great, but it will be enough force to send her flying back a dozen yards right as the explosive detonates.

Never mind him cracking that guy's face into the wall, it's the friggin' bomb that brings it crashing down on him. )

( He's not good at being a victim. It's not in his nature, but god damn it if it doesn't seem to keep happening lately. This isn't what he does, he's supposed to be on the other side of this equation. He's supposed to be the one protecting people, and that sense of failure will inevitably set in once this whole thing is over. It'll uncurl in the background of his mind, take root, and slowly grow.

For now, he can barely think with the surface level brain, let alone anything deeper. It's taking just about all he's got to keep moving, one hundred percent of his trust going to the guy navigating him — enough so that he doesn't even look, question, try to take the wheel, devote what little of his operating power he's got right now to anything but moving — and trying to breathe.

Never mind his leg or his head, fuck if his chest doesn't burn right now.

For the second time tonight, an explosion rings through his ears. They go stumbling out onto the lawn, onto cool grass and open air. The flood of oxygen is a curse and a blessing — it sends a vibrant rush of alertness to his foggy brain, but it also sends him into a coughing fit.

He peels himself away from Geralt's side, so he can half-collapse on his knees, spasming his way through chest-rattling hacking so violent it leaves him gagging, choking, heaving, one strong breeze away from flat-out vomiting up nothing.

For a pathetically long minute, that's straight-up all he's capable of. )

[ He sucks in a breath, blinking hard to clear his vision. His left palm is scorched, skin bubbling, but he doesn't think twice about it. He heals easily. Instead, he reaches for Dean, holding him up while he coughs up a lung or two. Waits for it to pass before he makes an attempt to sit Dean up.

He can practically taste the ashes in his mouth.

He holds his hand out—not an offer, but a command. Urgent. ] Come on.

[ He doesn't mean to drag Dean off again, but they aren't free from danger. What's left of the home, its blackened bones, is about to come down. Smoke is still billowing out in thick clouds. They need to be further.

Then he can take a look at Dean's leg. Ask him what the fuck even happened beyond crushed under a wooden rafter, house set ablaze.

(Something happened with Ciri. He can already guess that, can't he?) ]

( Every breath burns, but at least he's breathing. It's enough, but it feels like it isn't. It feels like there's a band wrapped around his ribs, squeezing, cutting off how full he can fill his lungs. Closest thing he could compare it to is when he was in his early twenties, roaming alone, getting drunk as hell at sorority parties he wasn't invited to and then chain-smoking cigarettes — fun at the time, but the next morning? Not so much.

This has gotta be ten times worse.

On the other hand, once you've been tortured in hell for thirty god damn years your tolerance for pain goes through the friggin roof — so when Geralt offers that hand out, Dean takes it. Despite the fact that he's still coughing, despite the way moving his leg seems to rip at burnt skin. He makes it to his feet, and he goes where he's lead.

The first thing he manages to say is a hoarse, crackling, barely-discernible: )

Son of a bitch.

( Annnnd then he's coughing again. Jesus fucking Christ. )

[ Geralt gives a snap glance over his shoulder—wants to make sure soldiers'll not interrupt—then helps move Dean several paces away. Enough to be clear of the choking fumes and heat.

He crouches in front of Dean. A squint. That cough sounds like shit. He can hear the difference between a cough that comes from needing air and one that says Dean's inhaled something dangerous. He tips Dean's chin up, stares him in the eyes to check his pupils. Glassy. Red. ]

Ciri's bringing a healer.

[ She'll be here soon. In the meantime, Geralt unhooks a flask of water and passes it over expectantly. Drink. He has a dozen questions, none of which he's asking yet. He'll wait until Dean isn't struggling to take a breath.

He indicates Dean's leg. His instinct is to say the injury isn't too severe seeing as he's pulled the man a good distance, but the fact that Dean's willing to move around on it doesn't tell him much. He knows the type. (He's the same.) ] Is it fractured?

[ 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!!

( It takes him two full blinks to focus properly on Geralt's eyes while he's being given the once-over, and frankly, it's a testament to how many miles they have under their belt that they're instinctively a little reassuring rather than uncomfortable, no stutter-start in cognition. Go back in time a year and tell him he'd feel that way after seeing yellow eyes in a house fire, and watch him laugh himself straight back into the flames.

He takes the flask. Chugs a mouthful, but uses some of that unfortunate restraint to swish it around and spit it out onto the ground first — taking with it ash, dirt, and blood. Barely a beat later, it's back on his lips, and he chugs half the damn thing before he's got to reel it away to keep from choking on it through another cough.

He shakes his leg at the question. Swallows twice, then croaks out an annoyed-sounding: )

Burnt.

( What he means is, just burnt, I'm fine.

Another glug of water, and then he finally fixes a properly attentive look at Geralt. )

How the hell'd you even get here?

[ Once he's certain Dean is focused enough—all things considered—he drops his hand. Could've been worse, then. Burns will heal. Nothing to be done about burnt except wait for Ciri to return with Jayce, either. Fuck. Between Yennefer and Jaskier and Sam only weeks ago, he's tired of everyone around him brushing up against death.

(No. He isn't counting his multiple brushes in the past months alone. That isn't the point.)

He sits himself down on the dusty ground amidst the debris and streaks of blood that have become common decor for the streets of Libertas. The sting and ache of his own pains are beginning to sink in. It shows in the way he flexes his fingers, red and blistering. ]

I walked. [ Flatly, before he sighs, absently spitting out a lock of hair stuck between his lips. ] Ciri. She said you were trapped.

[ He lifts an eyebrow. Want to tell him how you wound up in a burning building buried under some timber? ]

( 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!

( He shakes his head slowly — not in denial, just an automatic gesture of fatigue. Frustration, maybe, at the explanation he's about to give. He settles his bad leg out long, lifts the other knee, and rests his flask-holding elbow on it. Apparently he's temporarily claimed it, sorry Geralt. He can still taste ashes, his throat still burns. Not that the water's gonna do much to fix it at his point. )

Couple of douchebags pulled one over on us.

( He rasps, gesturing vaguely with the flask. )

Killed half, then one of 'em chucked in a bomb. Blasted her out right before it went off and brought part of the damn building down.

( Which is glossing over, like, fifty percent of the details — but they don't really matter. That's the summary, and it's punctuated by a conservative drink, to try and space out what's left of the contents. )

[ 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. ]

Edited 2022-09-16 02:38 (UTC)

[ His gaze flickers. Not hard to read between the lines, to fill in the blanks that Dean has left unspoken.

A brief pause. Geralt doesn't say thank you, in part because he's learned Dean isn't keen on hearing those words. He nods instead—yes. He knows. He understands what Dean did. It isn't the first time, is it? That Dean's put his life on the line for Ciri?

Later, he will reflect on it some more. ]

She'll be along with Jayce. [ Yes. The blacksmith. Geralt had not asked how or since when the fuck their local weaponsmith became their local healer, but Nadine is out of reach. Ciri believes Jayce can help. That suffices.

He sits for some minutes in silence until the familiar flash of ashen hair catches his gaze. Jayce's broad silhouette crests the sloping path. Then he's on his feet. His attention's off Dean in an instant, turned to Ciri.

He takes in the bruises, the scrapes. ] You're all right?

[ Jayce and Ciri hurried on their way there and he had seen Dean not that long ago before all of this happened, so he was still in the area. He sees that Dean is out of the rubble so he does not have to worry about the crowbar and shovel strapped to his back, the tools he brought to dig people out or get heavy objects off them. He sets them down and pulls out the deceptively small satchel which is a giant pack on the inside. ]

Dean, you step away from your local healers for fifteen minutes.

[ Jayce's medical expertise is only a few months behind Nadine, but his healing magic is extremely strong, both Horizon given and trained by a healing master. He's been keeping Viktor alive for months but that is known to only a few people, Ciri included. He isn't going to ask for an invitation now that he's there though so he goes right up to Dean and kneels next to him. Gold-brown eyes do a quick once-over of what he sees, the leg being the most obvious injury.

If they were on a long path looking for multiple injuries, he would be more careful with his magic, but this is Dean and that makes him an exception. Jayce touches his leg and he can feel the heat of the magic as it ripples through him almost like a flame in itself. ]

Look at me. Follow my finger.

[ This is the most important part. Exterior wounds, not as concerning. He moves his finger in Dean's sightline. ]

How does your chest feel? Where did it come down on you?

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 5

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

Aɴᴅ I'ᴍ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴏɴ ʀɪᴅɪɴ' → (ᴄɪʀɪ)

Mᴀᴍᴀ, ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʙᴀᴅɢᴇ ᴏғғ ᴏғ ᴍᴇ → (ɢᴇʀᴀʟᴛ)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject