[ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: November
Where: Cadens; Horizon; Nocwich
What: after the old gods, life goes on.
Warnings: Blanket for Witcher canon and general fuckery; nsfw marked



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

Comments

jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ Nocwich opening its borders so soon after things went to shit should be suspect. Geralt, though, presumes it is merely more politics. Politics and greed. If there's one thing the Summoned did well upon their arrival, it was spend their coin.

He gives it no more thought than that. What the nations choose to do, it's out of his hands. This does grant him a chance to escape the heat of the desert if only for a scant few days. He'll take it. The portals are not too far now as before. Makes crossing through simpler. (Not any easier on his damn stomach, though.)

Jaskier accompanies him. He wants his friend along, wants to put behind the fucked up month that plagued them. His thoughts are no longer so jagged and dark, but. They've not entirely left his mind, either. How he felt. The things which haunted him. Every twisted fear and guilt and fucking memory. He can smell it even now, the thick stench of herbs and blood and vomit and death. He can hear the screams. He can feel Jaskier dying under his hands.

The frost on the windows of their room is familiar. Feels as though he's not seen it in an age. The inn is comfortably large, an indulgence paid for in Jaskier's gold. Gold which has bought the copious amounts of liquor, as well. Geralt is on the bed, fire crackling, jug of wine next to him. He drinks straight out of it, tipping it back. His feet are crossed at the ankles, hair damp and loose from the hot springs.

He flips the little token in his hand, the ones laid out in the Square as supposed gifts. Runs his thumb over the grooves. Taken largely out of curiosity, it depicts a stag under the moon.

His eyes linger on Jaskier. They are both here for a reason, and Geralt is not pretending otherwise. Even if he hasn't any need to rush matters along. ] Planning on bringing your music here?

steve rogers.

[gynvael]

[ Cadens, as with any city overflowing with people, is often rowdy. Geralt's ignored his share of shouting and brawling—usually either takes his drinking to a corner or slips away altogether before he's swept up in whatever petty bullshit has ignited.

This time is different. He doesn't quite get to his feet, but his gaze lands on the men gathered by the front entrance. The air is sharp. He can't place his finger on it; he only knows the tension is not typical of the dozens of drunken scuffles that break out each evening, forgotten by the next day. Maybe it's the look of the men, maybe it's the innkeeper, usually unfazed, now appearing nervous.

Hey!
Did you think you could keep this from me?

Of course. The one place he chose to drink tonight. Should've gone next door like he'd meant to. He rests his fingers on his mug, watching out of the corner of his eye. Tries to decide if it's worth waiting for the burst of chaos and leaving in the midst of that, or if he should do something before weapons are drawn. He doesn't particularly give a damn about the men involved, but he happens to like the boy who works behind the counter, and he knows the boy's mother is somewhere here, too.

He's still contemplating, when—hm. He's picked this place specifically to avoid the other Summoned. So it's certainly a surprise when he suddenly catches a familiar voice, a scent, a face: whichever he happens to get first of the man who enters the picture next. ]

tony.

[gynvael]

[ Though Geralt simply chose not to mention it, he's been to Tony's domain before. Inadvertently—retrieving his wolf after it bolted through the magic doors and the walls started to speak.

He leaves the wolf at the keep today. It still carries memories he'd rather not dwell on for the moment, manifested in the form of a fresh scar that slices down its belly. Instead, he arrives on the motorbike he's come to grow fond of in the Horizon. Mostly, the bike serves to remind him this place is not real no matter how it may feel at times. And lately, that's what he needs.

In truth, he never imagined himself visiting. He spoke to Tony once for information, didn't find the man someone he'd go out of his way to have a drink with, and gave it no more thought than that. Not until the scrolling letters on the sand.

Maybe he knows what it's like to leave someone behind. Ciri arrived shortly—but there were several long weeks where he believed her lost for good.

So. Here he is. He swings his leg off the bike, parked directly outside the front doors. Previously, they opened for him without prompting. If they do the same now, he'll walk through—instinctively searching for a trail towards Tony unless he's stopped or directed elsewhere. It matters none that he hasn't any idea where the fuck to go; Geralt moves like a man who's forgotten how to feel lost. ]

dean.

[gynvael]

[ While Geralt did, technically, agree when they spoke about it, he's admittedly been putting off the matter. It's one thing to have people inside it, to be confronted with its existence. It is another entirely to have landed in it himself, trapped, and though only one other person was there at the time, it leaves him even more reluctant to address the problem.

But he can't hide forever. He's avoided it longer than he should. Besides. There are things he wants to broach with Dean, too.

It's mid-month when he finally sends a simple Bring your tools. Then he waits, a little on edge, a little thoughtful all at once. Something will need to fill the space afterwards—and he's yet to decide what that may be. Thinking on it feels premature. Place might spring back up as soon as they leave. Who the hell knows.

He's drinking when Dean arrives, has undeniably been drinking for. A bit. It's all right. He's fine. They can get this the fuck over with, and then he need not ever worry about anyone falling into his cellar of death and dying again. ]