abraxaslogs | December Chronicle [ closed ]

Following a long settling in period, Sam Winchester finds himself with many questions (although, perhaps notably, fewer than most). He's seen a bit of what Abraxas has to offer — between the portals and the magic and the varied denizens from across the universe — and for all intents and purposes, he has to admit that it feels a bit like more of the same. Perhaps a slightly different flavor of a familiar dish, but nothing so much as unsettling, which may be the most unsettling thing of all.

Intention to make himself available, he finds an empty table in the tavern area of Mag's where he can spread out a bit. He's gathered some books — a relatively inoffensive looking biographical stack – and perhaps he appears strangely restrained, all six-plus feet of him curled in around a table made for more, but truthfully he's as at home here as anywhere.

At some point, those long legs might kick an opposing chair in front of a passing body, and just once a fumble will have him quickly trying to soak up some water before it ruins one of the books spread on the table.

He's really a sight: long hair and long limbs and long on being by himself as his Hermit designation has appropriately deemed. Still, there's little stopping him from offering tight smiles while newly wrapped in attire more befitting a locale (although still looking very much as if he feels he doesn't belong).

Edited (typo) 2022-11-30 17:00 (UTC)

Sam won't know this, but for a few days after he arrives, Dean's in a better mood than he's been in for weeks. It won't last, but all the same it's a marked improvement over how generally dour his attitude has been since even before the Heralds had their vacation stay in Abraxas.

That jovial mood is practically freakin' Christmas, broadcasted out loud through sheer body language alone, possibly contagious via contact as he claps a hand down on Ciri's shoulder.

"Come on, I got someone I want you to meet."

It's that time again. That semi-regular almost-bimonthly time where new faces become long-timers at Mag's, and considering how many people have been filtering in from Dean's universe as of late, maybe she can connect the dots without an explanation. Not the particulars, not specifically who, but at least that one of those new faces is relevant like Jo and Claire were.

So he drags her away from her lovely family townhouse back to the Sarstina, spends a second scanning the room for the tall son of a bitch with the big face he knows to be holed up there, and then strides on over when he finds the guy doing the Sam-est thing to ever Sam. God help him, he can't quite muscle down the fondness. He's interrupted from his Sam-ing abruptly and unceremoniously with a short whistle to get his attention. There before him stands Dean, and beside him a much smaller, much younger girl, tragically lacking a sword that looks plenty hefty enough to decapitate a man.

"This is who I was tellin' you about," directed toward his brother, and then in turn an explanation for her, "Ciri, this is eight foot tall haircut is my brother Sam."

Edited 2022-12-02 18:44 (UTC)

Well and deep into the middle of a rather short biography, the pierce of the familiar whistle is more the enough to tug Sam right from his task. Try as he might, there's no part of him that can miss the attention sparked to life by Dean's prompting hail; as far back as he can remember it's been one of their most common call to arms.

"I don't know what he's telling you, but don't trust his skills of estimation," he says without missing a beat. He folds the book closed, finally looking up at the two of them. Dean is as expected, of course, but Ciri not so much. At first blush Sam's reminded of Jo — small, obviously armed, deceptively sweet badass status to be determined — but her obvious connections (Dean aside [read: Geralt]) keep the younger brother from such bold acceptance.

Smiling, he gestures to the available chairs without standing. Far be it for him to unseat Dean's appraisal of his height, although Ciri, certainly with some amount of common sense, will probably be fine to assess Sam as over six feet (but not seven or eight).

"Is that 'Siri' with an 'S' or 'Ciri' with a 'C'?" he asks while gathering the books to one side of the table, making room as he can.

Well. Dean is certainly enthusiastic today (a change from his recent lean on his grumpier tendencies, though after the business with the Heralds, she thinks nothing of it). So she allows herself to be dragged out with only a minimum of eye rolling and grumbling about it as they make their way over to the Sarstina.

So this is Dean's brother. They don't look much alike, she thinks, but it wasn't like she'd spent any time at all imagining what Dean's brother might actually look like.

She's automatically filtered out half of what Dean is saying, as usual, so she barely notices the exaggeration. Sam's vague correction, as it were, earns him a small snort of a laugh. With his wordless invitation to sit, she takes a chair and crosses her arms on the edge of the table.

"With a C. It's short for Cirilla." She says as if that word or name are known to either of them, but it's absentminded, sort of automatic in explanation. "Taking notes on all the new people you meet so you don't embarrass yourself forgetting names later?"

Ciri sits, but Dean takes a very important moment to flag down Inej first and gesture at their table — a wordless three drinks pleases that she's able to fluently translate by now considering how much time Dean spends drinking here. Once he's got her nod of understanding, he drags a chair out and settles in.

"She doesn't know about Siri with an S yet," he volunteers absently, digging around in his bag for his own journal. "Don't tell her. I'm trying to figure out a way to slow-burn that one in."

In the process of responding, Sam's cut short as Dean comments right on, another string of thoughts that maybe should have been kept in his brother's head instead. Sparing the other man a look — What the Hell is wrong with you? – he adds an emphatic shake of his head and then laughs awkwardly as he returns his attention to Ciri.

"It doesn't hurt to be accurate," he notes, although she isn't incorrect about his intentions, either. Sam, for his own part, tends to avoid foibles like that where he can. Dean, on the other hand, probably has seven nicknames for Ciri already (but won't ever forget her name even if he'll rarely use it properly).

"So, what's Dean told you about me?" It's well shy of blunt, not forceful by any means, proffered with a thin smile that he hides behind a sip of water he's been nursing for hours. Sam isn't looking to (purposefully) make enemies of his brother's friends, but he'd also learned some time back that they don't need to share the same sentiments about people.

Ciri shoots Dean a look -- a familiar one, pointed and vaguely annoyed but not with any real rancor behind it. She rolls her eyes and very deliberately ignores Dean, in a way that feels rather practiced by now. At least he has the decency to order drinks while spouting bullshit.

"Oh, you know. This and that. Just that he's got a brother, also a hunter. Pain in the ass as all brothers are." She smiles, a brief flash of teeth. "Obviously missed you like crazy. Couldn't wait to show you off as soon as you appeared."

Sam's not unimpressed by the reaction, guessing by now that Ciri must have known Dean for a while to have advanced so confidently towards the stage where she shoots him down effortlessly. In this case, he knows gentle ribbing when he sees it, and being exactly the kind of person that believes his brother needs his ego checked more than occasionally, he only scoffs. Even if he did feel compelled to charge to Dean's favor, he knows well enough that his brother doesn't need it.

"Fascinating stuff. People were thrilled to hear it, I'm sure," he muses quietly, trying for his own part to imagine how things would have come up had he arrived first instead of Dean. Would Sam have shared the same (or more) about his brother? Would Ciri still be at the table? Time will tell one way or another, at least in part, Sam figures, and while he's admittedly wary, he's not feeling any of the alarming signals he'd been faced with when he'd made the connections to (and between) those sitting at his table, proverbial or otherwise. If anything, Dean's improved mood is driving that cursory acceptance and he presses on.

"Are you a student?" He asks, but he'd noted the weapon on her and suspects her role to be similar to Dean's, but some consideration of the current society says she could be doing both adventuring and learning.

"A what?" Ciri blurts, with clear surprise. The question comes completely out of nowhere for her, and she gives Sam an askance look, confused by the assumption.

"No. What kind of student did you think I was?"

A glance at Dean.

"...his?"

Sam asks are you a student, and Dean's gentle snort is maybe slightly audible. Laughing at the prospect, at the concept — her, Ciri, doing the whole Stanford thing, settling in with flash cards studying her ass off about magical algebra or whatever. It's probably a rude thing to laugh about, and karma comes for him swiftly. She says his so skeptically, his head whips up and he shoots her an affronted look.

"I could be a teacher," defensively; how dare you scoff. "I'm a great teacher."

Left looking between the two, Sam sits on his uncertainty while their scene plays out. He lifts both hands when a moment allows him and he offers what can only be an earnest smile.

"I don't see why you couldn't be a student of whatever," he says, noting Ciri, "Or why you couldn't be a teacher," Sam adds, gesturing to his brother. Granted, classes for all involved would vary greatly — of that he's certain — and Sam probably wouldn't be taking Dean's class (for crossover reasons, he tells himself) but it doesn't seem out of the ordinary.

"Isn't the university a pretty large draw? I assumed people would be taking advantage of that," Sam explains, hoping his reasoning isn't too elementary for Ciri's liking. "I know I'm planning to see what they have to offer." He doesn't say as much, but there's no family business here to maintain, although there's no chance Sam won't be involved in whatever the others embroil themselves. Still, his curiosity won't be sated until he gives it proper consideration.

"Hm." She looks mildly surprised by this, like she hadn't thought of it before. "I suppose it would be. Most of my interaction with the university are to bring them specimens, though."

Her head tips curiously.

"What kind of classes are you looking to take?"

Specimens in its use strikes Sam's interest and he notes for himself to look into that later, perhaps specifically to see a little more of what that might entail. What sort of specimen are being collected and for what use? He could ask Ciri, he figures — have the answer immediately — but opts instead to take on her question.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "It's more for the sake of my curiosity, but I wouldn't say no to the education track if it falls into my lap."

Shifting, Sam's attention wanes and he glances around them before adding, "Of course, that's all secondary to helping out. If there's time." He couldn't abandon Dean, couldn't make that decision again even if urged to do so. (That's the feeling this week, at least.) And so he shrugs. It's nice to feel the guise of options for once, even if he's not saying as much.

It's more for the sake of my curiosity.

Dean's trying to give them a little space to chat among themselves, let them get to know each other, get off on the right foot — which means stepping out of the conversational spotlight for the most part.

Despite that, he can't quite muffle his quiet scoff of, "Pff, nerd."

Quietly, under his breath, and followed quickly by a drink. Don't mind him.

"...right."

Ciri glances over at Dean's noise, then looks back up at Sam, considering him for a long moment before taking an equally long drink. She lets the silence linger for a few seconds, then finally announces, with her cup thudding back onto the tabletop, "You're nothing like what I imagined Dean's brother might be."

Don't mind him just lowering his drink a little to squint at her, like what's that supposed to mean?

(There isn't much heat behind it. He knows him and his brother are night and day in a lot of ways. It's mostly for The Dramatique.)

Amusement plays on Sam's lips and he tips a shoulder upward in a shrug. "It's the height, isn't it? And the hair. And school thing," he points out, unceasingly merciless at times when it comes to this sort of rhetoric.

For Sam, who was essentially raised by Dean, there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't feel the lessons of a lifetime together coming through him in recognizable patterns of actions and thoughts (even if he doesn't act on them). At the heart of him is the heart of Dean. He was built that way, side-by-side with a true catalyst of good, the driving force, the magnetic pull that keeps them together. Even at his worst, Dean always fights. Sam should be so lucky.

"We've actually got a lot in common," he finally says, as if snapped out of a dream, perhaps even a hair over-obvious in saying as much. Although he doesn't explain further, there's no doubt (today) in Sam's mind about the marks they share.

Gesturing openly, he notes Ciri while sitting up some in his seat. Signaling his interest, he says, "Why don't you tell me a little bit about you. Dean mentioned you're not alone here?" The lilt of his question is less because Dean directly said as much and more because it's something that's been gleaned or otherwise overheard and it hasn't particularly felt like a secret.

Ciri isn't particularly used to this sort of interview-style formal introduction. She bears with it because Dean is a friend -- an ally, and Geralt's friend as well, and someone important to Jo. But she feels markedly awkward, and a little annoyed, and it may show slightly in the tight pull of her lips and the set of her shoulders. She leans back in her chair, tossing back the rest of her drink with formidable speed and surety. Then waves at a passing serving boy for another.

"Been here about a year and a half now. I hunt monsters, take the occasional job as a guard and monster deterrent. Dean mentioned you know a bit about that too."

Despite the leading question, she doesn't really elaborate on what Dean might've meant by her not being alone here. What is she supposed to say? Start elaborating on who is from her world, who she lives with, who her friends are? It seems rather ridiculous.

Ciri shoots Dean a look.

What the hell are we doing here?

If he doesn't look too carefully, it feels almost as if nothing's changed at all. Wandering the bunker at increasingly odd hours, Sam has been taking in the familiarity of the location while marveling at the magic that allows it to be. It isn't exactly as he left it, no, but what's changed has clearly been done with care. He supposes that makes sense; Dean has been here a year, hasn't he? But instead of decorating the walls and halls of a building, he's adorning a place of the mind.

Telltale signs pop up under Sam's gaze. It's not Dean's influence alone. Jo's footprints walk the same paths as Sam's, and it squeezes at his heart to realize how much space they've had to offer to so many people who aren't around anymore to take advantage of it. Or weren't. Or still aren't, but he doesn't like to think about that.

Here there seems to be near infinite amounts space, enough for everyone. And no shortage of people to take advantage of the rooms formed around the Men of Letters' legacy.

It is, in fact, people he's hoping to avoid one late afternoon — hermit as as hermit does — when he ventures out of his room, and it's people (probably) that he finds.

He clears his throat, saying quietly, "Geralt."

The greeting is strained and considering the man is spread out in the common room with tomes a'plenty, it doesn't appear he's at all uncomfortable in this setting (unlike Sam). He would be hard to miss, Dean's description aside, as the list of individuals with access to this realm are faces Sam would otherwise recognize on sight. Process of elimination.

"Does my brother have you doing his research now?" He tries for a hair of amusement, knowing as he does how Dean respects the man, but there's no denying the tension in his shoulders as he attempts to process Geralt's presence here. As something fully distant from what Sam knows (and yet somehow very much the same), he can't help but feel uncertain about the man's presence in a very personal piece of himself.

Kaer Morhen may exist in the Horizon, but Geralt is a wanderer. Home isn't really a place he occupies most of the year; there's more familiarity in drifting between the domains that have cropped up. Lately, he's found himself at the bunker for a few reasons. The matter of Dean's curse, for one, but also because he's curious about the tomes that line the shelves. A hundred years on, he's had few opportunities to read something that's genuinely new.

Who knew there were even more varieties of vampires than what existed on the Continent.

Footsteps catch his attention before Sam emerges, along with a human heartbeat. He gives no indication, idly leafing through the leather-bound volume until Sam addresses him upfront. Geralt doesn't look as if he belongs, exactly, so much as he appears perfectly at ease with being out of place. With existing surrounded by an air of tension that he may or may not be the cause of. (He often is.)

His gaze flicks up. Dean's told Geralt of his brother's arrival. But it remains strange to see a face that's both familiar and not—encountered only once, fleeting, in Dean's dreams. That Sam had carried an edge of wariness, too. Geralt needn't ask to gather where it comes from now. Or where he presumes it comes from, anyhow.

"I like books," he replies, deadpan but lightly enough. He closes the tome an inch, finger between the pages to hold his place. His head tilts. "He mentioned you'd newly surfaced. Settling?"

Edited 2022-12-03 00:15 (UTC)

Making no moves to spy the topic of the book, Sam notes instead the way Geralt saves his place, wondering if the man's anticipating the conversation to be short. Sam senses an air of patience, too — careful, calculated — and it feels too pointed for his liking (although he makes no move to disregard the favor that's bound together with it).

"I'm getting there. I've had a lot of help," he points out. He surveys the area as he answers Geralt, the sense of familiarity washing over him like nostalgia. Something about it all reminds him of home, but he wanders in his own doubt over how he can take such advantage and comfort in a place he hasn't truly come to accept. Amidst that, more doubt: Sam can't accept in part. To believe in Dean's presence, in Cas and Jo's presence, but deny the rest doesn't make sense. Still, he struggles. The questions multiply by the day.

(How can the books exist here? With what information are they filled and from which mind came the writing? Do they trust it to be true? Do they trust themselves to be true, for that matter?)

"There's no rule you can't take that with you." Sam gestures to the book. "To your—" He clears his throat subtly. "—room."

The response is as noncommittal as they come. About what he expected. Geralt eyes Sam as the man's gaze wanders. In one sense, he understands. If he'd walked into a facsimile of Kaer Morhen to find an unfamiliar face, he'd have been hesitant, too. The other part of him, though, isn't certain how much of Sam's wariness rests on what he's found rather than who.

Eventually, Geralt gives an equally indifferent hum in return. A courtesy acknowledgment. For him, that is as good as a full conversation. Had Sam not followed up, Geralt would've returned to his reading without another word. But Sam does: a vague little gesture, a hint of where a certain Witcher ought to be.

Geralt has long learned to read between the lines. He also does not much care to navigate those lines himself.

His answer is measured, not a challenge. But he's made no effort to soften the frankness in it. "If you've something to say, say it."

The tension ticks up within the bounds between them. The air becomes thicker and Sam draws it in as slowly and steadily as before, but feels the added gravity of it in his chest. He doesn't relent from his thoughtful observation, noting how Geralt's straight-to-the-point attitude might appeal to Dean. It hadn't gone over well when Sam had tried it, but then again, Sam has always been a little too close for the kind of grace he wants (although in a drowning supply of the kind he doesn't).

"What I mean," he says, patiently, "is that this isn't a public library. You don't need to observe 'the rules.'" Sam uses air quotes at the end, eyebrows going up. This is, perhaps, not helping in any manner, but its application is technically sincere. It isn't so much a get out as a if you're not comfortable, you don't have to stay here. Despite all of that, the sentiment is still heavily cast in an unfortunate pall of both concern and distrust.

Thing is, it's not just Geralt getting the brunt of this: With Dean's increasing antagonism and distance, Sam has become suspicious of everyone, in part. Himself included.

"Dean mentioned you're a hunter. He says he trusts you," Sam adds as he gestures to one of the other chairs, a silent question he doesn't feel he needs to ask but does out of some sense of courtesy.

This is, in Geralt's view, probably one of the more civil ways he's been told to get the fuck out, though he sort of prefers just being shown the door upfront. No doubt it helps none that his instinct is rarely to presume a stranger gives a shit about his personal comfort—not another human, certainly not another human hunter whether from Dean's world or no. And not when Geralt is sure he isn't expressing any semblance of discomfort in the first place.

To him, there can only be one reason for Sam's insinuations.

In either case: No. He does not need to observe rules. He also hasn't any interest in philosophizing over the nature of rules and humans and what is or isn't expected when something of his kind is involved. His only reply is silence, the type that suggests he can answer. He just doesn't see a reason to.

His eyebrow lifts. "Have you got rules for sitting?" Geralt finally puts his book aside, which Sam can interpret as he wishes where taking a chair is concerned. "I'm a Witcher."

It isn't a difference he emphasizes with everyone, but he does here. He studies Sam for a moment. Hard not to sense Sam edging his way towards a topic Geralt would much rather delve right into. Still, he's willing to extend his patience, and so he makes a simple, Continue gesture. Yes, Dean trusts him. He trusts Dean in turn. Where is this going?

Sam doesn't bother to note the expected etiquette for the situation; social mores don't really exist for people like him (perhaps them both) except in some ceremonial vacuum, usually in view of public eyes. Here in the bunker the rendered comfort and familiarity demands less of that complexity, less civility which can be observed as Sam slides out one of the chairs and slides himself into it. His hands fold on the tabletop, elbows sprawled like wings along the length in front of him.

"I only bring it up because Dean can be a little nearsighted when it comes to people." Not that Sam is any better, and in saying as much, his fingers flex out straight like he's trying to stem the tide of whatever might come. "Which isn't an accusation. But he's been—" Lips pinching, eyebrows following suit, Sam folds his fingers back down and probes on: "—agitated. Have you noticed?" He gestures at Geralt needlessly, and adds, "I figured I'd ask, since you know him so well."

Geralt's expression shifts when Sam says nearsighted—the appraising look on his face giving way to something closer to understanding. Maybe that's unexpected, where his reaction is concerned, but he can't quite begrudge the protectiveness in Sam. Even if, he thinks, it is a little misdirected.

Besides. They're all nearsighted, under the right circumstances. He's not immune, either.

"I've noticed." He also knows exactly the problem with Dean. As much as it isn't for him to grant the details, he equally doesn't want to get involved in covering for Dean. The line between omission and discretion is thin. Speaking to Jo was one thing. He'd had time to gauge the dynamic between she and Dean. Dean and his brother is another crack in the ice entirely, and not one he wants to step on blind.

Really, this would be simpler if Dean would tell everyone what the fuck was going on. Be done with it. He can't blame the man for avoiding the topic, but—it's beginning to bleed out past the point where people notice.

He sighs. "I confronted him not long ago. He eventually told me the truth. But frankly," Geralt continues, blunt but not unkind, "if he's not revealed it to you, then it isn't my place to say. You should ask him yourself. Or give him time to come around to it."

A measure of disappointment is tempered by Sam's general lack of surprise and he nods slowly as Geralt commits to a noncommittal answer. Sam, of course, feels he needs no more than those few details to understand a whole hell of a lot more about everything that's going on. And damn if he isn't both glad for it and frustrated by it, particularly since he's feeling ever more like he's stepped into all of this a (fabulous) hair too late.

Sam sighs, then, a hand pushing through his hair. "Thanks. For the insight," he says, haltingly, lips pressed into a straight line that could be a smile but probably measures equally as consternation. He leans back in the chair, exhibiting more comfort without actually feeling it. Despite his obvious concerns, one thing does become increasingly clear: Geralt is close enough to Dean that the trust between them is starkly mutual; Dean would never share a serious shortcoming, even pressed, if that weren't the case.

"Is it possible we're exacerbating the situation?" Sam doesn't pause in including himself as a potentially unsettling influence.

He gets the sense Sam is feeling his way around, but Geralt is frankly a poor option to do so with. His silence continues; he volunteers no further details. The curse is only their most recent stint of shit. Where he and Dean are concerned, there's a lot of ground to cover—and he doesn't want to get into it at the moment, the fact that he is rare to trust another person, rarer to trust another human who proclaims to be a hunter of monsters.

Dean is an exception. And having met Jo, now Sam—so far, Dean continues to remain one.

There is no we. His connection is with Dean and Dean alone. In the same breath Sam aims to include them as one, Geralt separates them again.

"I am not," he replies. Unhesitating, like he's never given the idea a second thought. "For you, I can't answer."

A beat. Sam, unlike Dean, is a little less straightforward to discern, full of carefully trimmed words. He finds himself backtracking to Dean can be a little nearsighted. Whether Sam meant his current remark to build on that or not—it's how Geralt reads it.

"You don't trust me around your brother."

Plenty of times Sam's felt shame for his part in the chaos and discontentment experienced by his brother, and having struggled so thoroughly in his own right, he makes no excuses for himself anymore (even if Dean makes excuses for him). Undoubtedly, there's a side of Dean, and consequently (as well as in addition to) Sam, that stops short of the appropriate due diligence when involving matters of the heart. Perhaps it's fortunate Geralt doesn't struggle in the same way — impressive, if nothing else.

"Dean handles himself," he explains, "and I've learned to respect that." In part. "But none of us are without influence. Or being influenced. 'A body at rest remains at rest unless an outside force acts upon it,'" Sam quotes, although he's fallen very far from the tree where Newton postulated such things (and never mind that Geralt doesn't know Newton from Adam [another "common knowledge" item which also presents as an Earthly thing perhaps entirely lacking in context]).

"I wouldn't be much of a brother if I hadn't considered it." It's almost presented unabashedly, although Sam has the good sense to lower his gaze in time with reaching out to twist one of the books around on the table so he can investigate the cover. The fact that he feels shy of what he says doesn't make it true, and despite his efforts otherwise, Sam expects to always struggle with the thought, at least in some manner. Dean will always be the better brother, but that doesn't mean Sam stops trying.

Influenced by what? What, exactly, does Sam believe he will influence a fully grown man to do? Does he exude a corrupting aura?

An impatience is creeping up on Geralt, the kind where he does not seek to clarify someone's meaning because he's pretty fucking sure the answer isn't favourable either way. Even so, he's allowed a certain leeway. He's aware Sam is Dean's brother; he knows how people are about the ones they love. Not always the most reasonable. Besides, he isn't here to interfere with Dean's relationships nor make them more difficult. Fuck knows he can't explain the precise role Yennefer plays in his life, even after everything, nor does he ever care to.

Some things simply are.

For the first time, Geralt leans forward. If his tone was candid before, it's especially so now.

"You're concerned. I understand." He doubts this is a conversation Sam holds with Dean's human friends, though he doesn't care to raise that point. He is not interested in debating the nature of his existence in Sam's eyes. "Let me be clear: I've spent the better part of a century alone. That is the path my kind walks. I am not here because I want or need anything from your brother. I am here because he asked me to be, and he's earned my trust. That is all."

If Sam cannot accept this, then the person to take it up with is Dean. Not him.

Edited 2023-01-06 18:54 (UTC)

There's no reason for Sam to doubt this — it fits the tone Dean had provided — but he struggles with allowing himself the relief of it. The part of him that feels responsible for the dearth of support in his absence, the part that believe no one can know Dean as well as his brother, doesn't allow for it. He shouldn't be threatened and doesn't have any right to be defensive, and yet he feels very much that way, particularly in the face of Geralt's nonchalance.

"Good." If he's relenting, there isn't a lot of heart in it, but some. He nods to himself. "That's what I wanted to hear," he tells Geralt, mostly with his eyebrows.

A moment later, he's back on his feet and carefully pushing in his chair. Fingers tapping against back, he seems to consider saying something else but eventually nods a second time and then dismisses himself without another word. He doubts Geralt will complain.

December Chronicle [ closed ]

Cadens / Mag's [ closed ]

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Horizon [ closed ]

—Geralt

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