abraxaslogs | [OPEN] cold wind blowing beneath my wings

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[OPEN] cold wind blowing beneath my wings

WHO: Estinien Wyrmblood and YOU
WHAT: Estinien is back in the real world and not particularly happy about it, at least until he manages to meditate his way into the Horizon again. Meanwhile, his cellmate Relena goes missing and he gets very angry about it.
WHERE: In prison and also the Horizon.
WHEN: From July 24th to August 12th
NOTES: If you'd like something more specific with Estinien feel free to hit me up on the Discord or at

quixocalypse.

I➔ And Back Again

The descent from the Horizon feels akin to being summoned back to a dead body, both in terms of power and relative comfort. The aches and pains of his imprisonment return with merciless acuity. While his energy had been boundless in that higher realm, here it is reduced to scraps as the ravages of hunger and exhaustion weigh down on him. It's the contrast itself that is the most jarring, along with the fact that he wakes up in shackles.

Yes, the fear that had been haunting his subconscious his entire stay in the Horizon has come back into context. This is what he'd been desperate to escape, and now that he's returned to it, he feels no less dread. Even worse is the fact that Ambrose seems perfectly chuffed with himself for what they've experienced.

Upon being returned to prison, he wonders what it was all for. Any connection to the power of the Horizon seems to be gone, and given that somehow accessing the Singularity was his one hope of escape, their return leaves him in a rather dire mood. To make matters worse, it seems that the guards haven't forgotten about his aggression on the way to the portal, and also on the way back. They decide to deny him food entirely on his first day back to his cell. He should be glad he's not been simply put back into solitary, something in his gut says.

The atmosphere around him is one of miserable defeat, during those first few days back in prison. Even during the recreational hours, his accumulated frailty can be seen. As much as he tries to flex his muscles, he soon finds himself slumping against the rec yard wall. He's tired, starving, and clinging more and more tenuously to any sort of hope. Was the Horizon an escape at all, when it was all according to the High Mage's plan?

II➔ To The Horizon

Fortunately for him, his obsession driven life means he is not one accustomed to giving up for good. It takes only a couple of days before he realizes the futility in surrender - especially when he's hardly explored all his options. The Horizon was something experienced outside the body, was it not? So why not see if the connection remains?

He spends the rest of that day attempting to sink back into the Singularity's power, carefully clearing his thoughts. He is used to stilling his mind from years of being connected to Nidhogg's eye, but it has been a while since such intense concentration was required of him. He's not sure when it happens, but finally, something clicks.

Instead of awakening on his prison mattress, he wakes in a field of rolling grass - and not long after, a pile of snuffling karakul. Everything comes rushing back. He'd remembered his time in the Horizon, but something about experiencing it again reforges the connection between those two states of mind: the mind of the dragon, and the mind of his true self. To think, that all of this had been made by his hand.

He frees himself from the overzealous affection of his flock, a lifetime of memories allowing him to better keep his reflexive fear of them at bay. He wanders the valley for a while, his memories casting all he sees in a new light. What did it mean, that his unshackled soul decided to build this? Was this what he wanted, after everything? He comes along the long bit of housing within his domain, a single-family household carefully crafted of timber, but left completely empty inside. For all the time he'd spent in the valley, he spent little time dwelling on this creation. He thinks he can understand, the emptiness of its walls resonating with a similar emptiness in his heart.

He traces his fingers along the windows, across the door, but he doesn't dare open it. Instead, he decides he'd rather go somewhere else.

Without his memories, he hadn't been particularly curious about other people's domains, mostly interested in his own creations and keeping them safe. Now, though, a lifetime of experiences draws him to the outside world. He wonders if anyone else has reawakened to this place. He traverses the Horizon on foot this time, and occasionally in soaring leaps and bounds that are nearly akin to flying. Yet, he summons no wings. He can't imagine he made a particularly good impression on anyone, the way he was before.

III➔ The Weight of Absence (Aug 5+)

And then, some days later, Relena is taken.

He doesn't know the meaning of it, at first. The guards simply come to remove her from the cell, saying it's for some manner of 'trial', and she goes, with nothing he or Himeka could do to stop it. He demands answers at the time, shouting at the guards, but receives none. Initially, he wonders if she'll be freed, much like Kay was. It'd make sense, he thinks. If the trial was just, he could see no reason for her to be put in solitary or anywhere else, and he knows she has at least one friend on the outside.

Yet, when he doesn't hear anything from her in the coming days, he can no longer rely on that hopeful thought. Kay has been allowed to come and go, just like the other guests. Would Relena not have come to speak to them, after being freed? If not for him, for Himeka or the others?

As each day passes, his frustration and worry increases. He'll start attempting to flag down any passing guests, asking if they have seen her amount the others upstairs. On the way to recreation, he will check to be sure she hasn't simply changed cells, and ask around the other prisoners.

"Relena - the girl from my cell, with the long sandy hair - the guards have taken her somewhere. Have you seen her?"

With fewer and fewer kind possibilities in his mind, he'll start turning his aggression to the guards, shouting at them to ask for her location, and trying to grab at them through the bars when they inevitably ignore him. Finally, he manages to catch sight of a guard he thinks he recognizes from the day she disappeared. He manages to catch them by the arm, dragging them back against the bars of the cell.

"Where is the girl?" he snarls.

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That catches him by surprise. Geralt looks up, head canted to the side as he watches the elf actually laugh. There's a sound in the back of his throat that might be amusement; it doesn't entirely match Estinien's level of mirth, but it's more than his typically flat disposition.

A name. One that confirms what he already knew, though he doesn't say it. Not quite an elven one by the Continent's standards, either, though it carries a similar flare. Perhaps elves across worlds aren't too different from each other. Makes him wonder if Estinien's kind thrives where he is or if humans have overrun them, too.

He pauses, then offers his hand. "Geralt of Rivia."

Habit, a bit; Rivia means nothing to anyone here, and the reality is, it means nothing to him, either. Just a name. A place that could've easily been any other. He's used it long enough, though, it sometimes feels like his own.

A moment passes before he addresses a curiosity that's been on the back of his mind, but not important enough to go out of his way to find out. Since he's got the elf's attention, though— "You, I know what you are. But your friend. Himeka. What is she?"

He accepts Geralt's hand without hesitation. The name sounds fairly normal to him as well - in different circumstances, he wouldn't have had difficulty imagining Geralt was from his own world. His eyes are a bit strange, certainly, but otherwise, he could be a normal Hyur.

He's also not surprised that Geralt doesn't know what Himeka is. He also wouldn't have been sure, ten years ago.

"An Au Ra," he says, knowing full well it explains little. "A people from the Far East, made distinct by their dragonish features, though they are not actually related to them." Though many an Au Ra has suffered for that connection regardless. "She was one of the first I ever saw. Those horns are her ears, you know."

Something she had been happy to tell him about, not long after their meeting.

So they are of the same sphere. He hadn't been sure if that were the case or if they'd only grown close here. Something about the summoning spell, maybe, that pulls in those who have a connection. Which is interesting. Is it possible? Through what means? He's never heard of that before. Often, spells of that kind would be influenced by proximity more than anything.

"Mm." Not a dragon. Right. "I'd wondered about that."

The dragon-like features, he means. The thought had crossed his mind. Mostly dismissed it, though. The idea of Ambrose pulling a dragon out of the well is edging towards ludicrous, even given all that's been happening. Still. Hard not to return to that stray concept now and again. That and—

—Wait, her what? Somehow, the piece of trivia comes out of nowhere. Geralt raises an eyebrow; the corner of his lips quirk upwards.

"I'll keep this vital information in mind."

Estinien has wondered the same, but with his own experiences, the idea that a summoning spell would favour those already connected is not without significant precedent. The Exarch's spell had worked the same, after all... and there seems to be a lot of pairs here, in particular. He's often wondered if it followed the same rules - that it pulled along those most closely bonded by fate.

He's like to imagine that he and Himeka were somehow joined by fate, and thinking of it prolongs the faint smile of fondness he's dawned while discussing her.

"She would insist it nothing less than critical," he agrees in a similar tone. It had been a curiosity to him at the time - visually speaking, ears are a focus for Elezen aesthetically, and to see a creature that seemingly had none has fascinated him.

"She may be no dragon herself, but she's made her mark among them. The champion of the dragon lord Midgardsormr, among other things." She has too many accolades to count, really. "For all that it means to an outsider, I cannot overstate her import to the fate of our realm."

The note of warmth that Estinien has when speaking of her is noted, tucked away in that space where Geralt keeps everything he observes whether he finds it immediately relevant or not. He isn't working, technically, but it's become second nature by now.

Talk of dragons leaves him quiet. So does talk of champions. Where is the gold dragon these days? Up on the mountain still, he presumes. He hasn't thought back often. Tries not to, at least. Too much happened there. Too much he left behind that day.

"I'm sure," he replies simply. What's it like to believe so firmly? In fate and the hands of those who can turn it. To see something other than the chaos scattered through the world. He wants to say it doesn't matter, any one person's importance. In the end, places or people, they rise and fall all the same.

"At least your dragons have champions. Ours have treasure hunters."

Estinien would be somewhat shaken to know that he's coming across as faithful, though it's likely true of him at this point. Different worlds with different realities... he thought the world a much grimmer place than it ended up being.

He looks at Geralt and tilts his head in question. Treasure hunters? He's not entirely sure what he means. There's the acknowledgement in his mind that the dragons Geralt knows might be different, but...

"You mean they seek to hunt them?"

Haven't they the same hunters? The same treasure seekers? Geralt had assumed, only because Estinien had mentioned the so-called champion. What'd they been defended against then? He finds himself intrigued, suddenly, by the kinds of dragons that the elf might know.

"Mm. Legends and stories." Probably. Geralt's not ever cared to confirm. There are certain contracts he won't take and dragons are one of them. The one time he'd joined a hunting party, not for the dragon or some whispered treasure but for...his own reasons—it's given rise to regrets he will live with. But he thinks of Borch with the egg he'd sought to protect, and he also knows he'd have done the same again. If only for that. (And because he knows, what happened on those mountains that day or no, he and Yennefer were never meant to last.)

Who knows? Egg might've even hatched by now.

"Dragons are rare these days," he continues. "Greed and fear took care of that."

Hearing that, even though it sounds like a different situation, sends a twinge of regret through Estinien's gut. How many dragons had fallen by his lance, not least Nidhogg himself? He knows it isn't the same, that dragons were not exactly the fragile minority in their battle against Isghard, but yet...

"The dragons of my world are still plentiful... though they have faced the cruelty of man many times over the centuries. Civilizations of yore sought to steal and abuse their power, the vestiges of which torment their kind even to this day."

He thinks of Tiamat, of the sorrow he felt for her both as a stranger and a brother. Yet, does she not now fly free once more?

"But they are strong," he says, a sense of pride coming with it that sounds deeply personal, like something he is a part of. "And they and the children of man have come closer in understanding in recent years, in no small part due to Himeka's actions."

He hears what Estinien is saying; it's all very fascinating, an intriguing tale, and it's hard not to notice how obviously personal it is to the elf. But truth be told, Geralt can only absorb it for what it is: a story, a tale, neatly wrapped. The kind Jaskier so loves to compose his songs about.

Bet Jaskier could spend hours with Estinien, digging out stories of champions and sorrowful dragons. Maybe he'll introduce them at some point.

"A happy ending," he replies simply. Sounds pleasant. Makes him curious what isn't being said—but the politics of another sphere isn't his main concern under the circumstances. When he looks back, there's a question in the tilt of his head. "You've told me plenty about your friend. What about you?"

He's sized the elf up some; a fighter, he thinks, or simply someone who does hard labour. Hell of a lot taller than the elves he's familiar with.

Estinien turns to meet his gaze, his brow raised slightly, as if in question. He shakes his head slightly, and can't help but add:

"Twould be naive to call anything an ending." Not when horrific catastrophes seemed to visit his world as if on schedule. There's been previous Warriors of Light, previous Azure Dragoons, who all probably thought they were winning as well.

As for the other question, well... it's tempting to brush it off with something like 'what is there to tell?' but that would be obnoxiously ingenuine at best. As much as he doesn't like to talk about himself or be talked about by others, he knows his own life is exceeding strange.

Wouldn't it be so much easier and so much more pleasant to keep talking about what Himeka had done, or what Aymeric had done, or what Alphinaud was still likely doing? But, maybe there is at least one thing he should admit to, now that he's gone and sung the praises of mankind's rekindled friendship with dragons. It's really not something he could or should take credit for.

"...I was a dragon slayer," he says. It's the truth about what he is, after all. "For nigh on twenty years, 'twas all I concerned myself with. My lance has since found new purpose, but 'tis a truth that will not change."

It would be more pleasant. That's exactly why Geralt has switched tracks. He's not interested in pleasant; he's interested in what's not being said between the lines—and something about a man who would speak so easily about others' exploits and none of his own catches Geralt's attention. He doesn't know what he expects to hear, if he'll even get an answer, but he does expect something.

Dragon slayer makes him raise an eyebrow. The pieces slot into place: about the elf, about his story. (How many dragons are there even? They're so rare on the Continent, more than a few believe them to be myth altogether. He can't imagine what it would be like, to exist in a world where they've grown to become the main source of conflict.)

The sound he makes in reply is contemplative. If there's regret that he hears in that confession, Geralt lets it slide by. It tells him enough. He's had his own fill of them, anyway. "You found a second path. That's more than most ever get."

"It is."

Estinien would never deny it. He's exceedingly privileged to have had a chance to change course, and to have lived long enough to do so. It's a privilege that haunts him more than any of his woes ever could. Why should he be the one to get a second chance, he's wondered? Why he, and not Ysayle, or his fallen dragoon comrades, or even Nidhogg himself?

It's foolish to think of it that way, he knows. Nobody chose for it to happen like this, they are merely living with what happened. Nidhogg had made his own bed, and Estinien better than anyone knew that there was no going back for him. That many had died at Nidhogg's command and only more would be taken, of man and dragon alike?

But wasn't it be more just to focus on those that had allowed him this second life? The people that had saved him, that had nurtured him even when he made it so difficult, so that he could cling to the vestiges of compassion that Nidhogg had forgotten? He feels that ache especially keenly now.

"Little of what happened is to my own credit," he says. "I would rather think of those that allowed me to have hope long enough to become who I am now."

It's a bit more philosophizing than Geralt ever intended an old apple to beget. In a way, he doesn't particularly mind. A lot's been swirling in his head; a fog he's struggled to dispel. Somehow this conversation has served as a decent enough distraction from that. From the sinking in his stomach that hasn't stopped since he's returned from the Horizon.

Hell, maybe he's the one who owes Estinien a favour, in the end.

"So you are capable of not being entirely fatalistic." The shift of his gaze suggests he's only poking lightly. Feels like it only makes sense that Estinien's close friend is someone as bright as Himeka.

Not that he's one to talk. (He's aware of exactly what the bard would say to that sentiment.) Though he likes to think he's reason to dwell a bit, even if he knows it's about time he finds his footing again.

Estinien scoffs, furrowing his brow at Geralt in a way that is not entirely without humour. He hasn't completely given up, but he's running out of ideas, and he can't figure out any way to save himself by merit alone.

"I'm only being a realist," he says. "My best efforts were put towards escaping captivity the first time... with that ending in failure, I'm struggling to figure out what else I might offer. You said yourself, it's surprising I'm not dead already."

Though he argues, it's in a tone that matches Geralt's. He fully realizes that he's capable of being fatalistic. He never spent much time considering that he might be alive to see the war end, after all.

"But... if there were another chance, I would take it. Though it might be my last."

They're all struggling with that, he thinks. If only because whatever magic tracks them throws a heavy noose around what plots and plans anyone here might've come up with. And too many of them are attached. Too many have people they won't leave behind. He counts himself amongst that group—a decision he's well aware is far from practical, but one he also knows he won't budge on.

"Last chances are usually the ones to take."

He gets up; the only sign he still nurses an old injury is that he leans his weight on the tree as he does. It's occurred to him, the entire time they were in the Horizon, that the wound hadn't healed at all. It'd stagnated. As if nothing about their bodies progressed. The concept is...

Not ideal.

"Try not to die either way," he says, already beginning to move off. "I think your friends would prefer your rescue over mine."

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[OPEN] cold wind blowing beneath my wings

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