abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] deep below the earth

[ Downstairs, the darkened hallway and its darker room has laid smashed to bits for a few weeks. It isn't that he's putting it off. Not like that. Just waiting, perhaps, for a time that feels right.

When it does, he tells Jaskier to meet him.

Though the area beneath should be as vast as the rest of Kaer Morhen, if not more, it isn't. There's a long winding hallway that vanishes into nothingness, and the bloodied, twisted room that once sat behind a heavy door to the right. The door is no more than splinters; the rest is a pile of broken stone and brick. It's not quite so dark anymore. The overwhelming stench of herbs and rot is gone.

And to the left, it's simply blank. Not empty, but blank. He's never filled it in. Never came down here to do so.

Jaskier will find him sitting a few steps down on the stairs, waiting for the bard to arrive. His wolf awaits beside him. Careful eyes will notice a new, but already healed, scar along its belly.

As Jaskier's footsteps approach, he shifts to the side to let his friend pass, glancing up to greet him with only a tilt of his head. ]

Edited 2023-01-02 00:49 (UTC)

[When Geralt does not so much invite him to his Kaer Morhen as forcibly requests his presence, he needn't ask what for. The topic rose in Nocwich all those weeks ago, and he knows it has been brimming in Geralt's mind, along with many other things, he's sure (between all the parties and celebrations they have been attending.)

Jaskier flutters through the gentle snows of Kaer Morhen, surprised to find he does not feel the cold in his wings as he moves. He follows through familiar hallways, past roaring fires, and the faint smell of cooking meat to deeper, colder halls. He gives a little cry to announce his presence, and in a single smooth movement, the sandpiper becomes the Sandpiper, dressed sensibly in a simple trouser and shirt, sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, showing off the scar that envelopes his left arm.

Jaskier's first greeting is to the wolf, which he bends down to scratch on the head with a smile.] Long time, no see, my little wolf! Glad to see you are as hardy as ever. [He sees the scar, but does nothing more than kiss between his ears (and the wolf, with annoyance, allows it.) How could he miss it, when this creature sprung from his own soul?

And then he passes Geralt, turning around, holding his hand out. Distantly, there is the sound of lute strings being plucked that are approaching, along with the neigh of a very small horse.] Let's get a move on, shall we? I brought music. To motivate.

[And then Moglad and his steed fly their way down the hallway, bearing a lute on his paws, and a bottle of wine tied to the horse's saddle, swinging dangerously back and forth like the ball of a bell. I brought drink, kupo!] Moglad promised he would help.

Edited 2023-01-02 01:00 (UTC)

[ The wolf stretches, sitting with resigned acceptance as Jaskier dotes upon it. Its face bears a similar expression to Geralt when Jaskier takes a brush to his hair.

The flapping of tiny wings makes him look up. He sighs. Yes, of course. Moglad is here. (He adjusts Moglad upon the saddle without a word, to keep the idiot creature from falling off.)

His eyes roll. ] Come on, then.

[ Geralt leads the rest of the way down. Broken bits of wood and slats sit a corner. Jaskier must recognize them as belonging to the beds that were once here. The chains have been torn out of the fragmented walls. Not erased, but destroyed. He's put some effort into sweeping the debris into a corner, though.

He stands for a moment in the doorway, considering the detritus of darker memories. Then he bends down, tossing them into a crate that materializes out of nowhere. It is not, of course, necessary to physically remove the remnants, and once they are disposed of, he knows they will simply vanish from existence. But it's how he prefers to go about things. ]

[The wolf loves him, and this is a fact Jaskier is sure of. But at least he doesn't feel the need to constantly annoy the beast; they will forever have the annoyances he bestowed upon it during their journeys, after all.

Moglad leads Jaskier in the charge, the wine bottle swinging less dangerously now, his pom bouncing with the in-air gallops of his steed. The moogle, as requested, keeps his questions to himself; both he and Jaskier are quite aware of the delicate nature of this operation, and neither wish to inflict more upon Geralt while they work.

Moglad stays close to the bard, however, as they are both left very uneasy even stepping into the place. But this level of destruction -- far more than he'd even seen in the real Kaer Morhen -- surprises him.] What on earth? This is far more than I was expecting. Though I should have. The gods themselves know that Geralt of Rivia has never done anything in halves.

[More destruction, and more work. The ghost of Amos lingers as Jaskier looks around, recalling how even that giant man had been shaken by the sight of this basement. What would he think of it now? Would it still bring such hauntings?

Moglad makes a soft kupoo... as he lands his horse upon the top of a half-broken bed, where the creature stretches and lays down on the closest thing to a blanket the basement contains. Moglad busies himself with filling a few pints with the wine for the three of them as Jaskier crafts a pair of thick leather gloves, covering both his burnt fingertips and the worst of the scar on his arm.

He holds back a sigh. Geralt, as a man, has always been tactile. Of course he could not simply vanish it all. But, he suspects, that would miss the point, too.

Moglad lays the pint next to Geralt, and then begins work beside him by picking up small rocks in his paws and floating them into the crate.] First, I think, this place needs some light. [He turns to Geralt.] May I?

[Normally, he would not ask. But this moment is nothing close to normal.]

Edited 2023-01-03 08:00 (UTC)

[ Geralt glances over his shoulder. Yeah. Mm. ] He brought...power tools.

[ "He" refers to Dean. Said tools are impossible to explain until one sees them, but Jaskier can use his imagination from the destruction that's been wrought. Not that Geralt handled one himself. He'd sort of. Done his part with a plain old maul.

He had a few things to work through.

He waves a hand, indicating Jaskier to go ahead and illuminate the space as needed. It isn't pitch-black as it once was, but still dark for human eyes. Jaskier saw this room long ago. When it first spawned. When it was bad, but not near as bad as it grew over time. Especially after the unwanted memories that spilled across Abraxas through the Singularity, forcing him to share his past with those who never asked for it. He's aware the changes, even torn down, are visible for someone like Jaskier. Someone who knows him too well.

He never told Jaskier he had tried to vanish this space. It never lasted. Always returned. Not until Dean suggested they break it down by hand did he consider that maybe that's what was needed. So far, it's worked. The rubble's been sitting here for weeks. Same as he last left it. He's hoping that by removing the debris piece by piece, he'll make sure it stays gone.

Moglad is quieter than Geralt's ever seen him. He watches the moogle carry a rock, one at a time, to dispose of, then returns to dumping more of the stone into the crate. The piles disappear one by one—perhaps a little faster than should be possible, but the Horizon is nebulous in that way. Geralt doesn't question it, doesn't even seem to much notice. Mostly, he just keeps working in silence. Takes a drink now and again. But halfway through, he moves to the blanket in the corner, the one Moglad had sat on earlier.

Leave something, Dean had said, when Geralt had admitted he didn't like the idea of erasing every trace of something that's a part of his past. Of him. That doing so feels like running away, burying and forgetting. And he knows that's not how it works.

He tugs the thin, worn blanket from under the splintered wood—a rag more than anything—and begins to fold it up to put aside. ]

Er... power tools?

[Perhaps he should not ask. Whatever Geralt allowed Dean to use has completely obliterated this place. Which, despite only knowing the man somewhat, it does strike Jaskier as true that he would make a mess and not clean it up after.

Lucky that Jaskier is here. And that Geralt did not truly need to ask (even though he did.) He raises his hands, and hooks begin growing out of the walls still stable enough to hold them. And then similar to the lamp that Geralt himself gifted him, The Horizon crates soft, fluttering lights (not flames) that begin to light up the rubble.

It is there he sees it's larger than he remembers. And as he carefully walks around, his boots leaving prints in stone dust, he confirms that it is. There's more... more chains. More -- The sour smells are mostly gone, but there are beds -- tiny ones -- and more of them. And a side room that opens into a round(ish, judging from the ruins) room with a single chair in the center, toppled over and broken to pieces.

Jaskier gets rid of those pieces first.

He steps back out and the room is not much better, but the warm light leaves a bit of room for potential. Jaskier hums one of his songs as he works, and Moglad makes sure to keep their glasses topped up, sneaking long draws of the wine bottle between hauling the stone.

Gradually, there is clear space. He feels rather as if the place should be drowned in a rainstorm to properly clean it, but he sets the possibility of that aside.

Jaskier turns and watches the Witcher fold a blanket. He steps over, offering a basket, woven tightly, with a closed lid.] You might as well help the ratty old thing survive longer.

[ In Dean's defence, Geralt had sent him off the moment the place was rubble. Needed time, he supposed. To himself. He isn't sure. He'd left the mess here with the intention to take care of it. Wandered in and out, considered cleaning it up before asking Jaskier to come help. He didn't. It's—

Truth be known, he struggles to be alone down here for too long. Afraid, perhaps, it might reform if he sits with it without anyone else there with him. Creeping through the cracks in his mind, the way it had before.

The light helps. They glow softly, warming the frosty air. He speaks rarely—almost never—of the Trials. Jaskier is the one person who knows the most not from a bleeding of his memories, but because he's simply been in Geralt's life for that long. Even then, the details are sparse. He has no interest in inflicting them on his friend. What will it solve?

As Moglad floats by, he gives the thing an idle pat on the head. Jaskier appears behind him, basket in hand. Geralt pauses. Then he accepts, placing the blanket inside. He closes the woven lid.

Right. He need not explain himself to Jaskier to be understood.

He hands the moogle the basket with its shitty keepsake. Somehow, he knows it'll be taken care of while they work. Moglad, ultimately, is a part of Jaskier.

The chains clank, heavy, weighted, as they land atop the discarded stone inside the crate. He tosses every bit in, the thick leather straps, the broken wooden legs, the shattered glass. Some of these pieces make no fucking sense, were never a part of the Oubliette he was locked in, but accuracy to life is not how the Horizon works. Doesn't matter. He's ridding all of it, anyhow.

Eventually, he stands: dusty, dried blood staining his fingers. But it's empty. Ready to be remade. ]

Not sure where to start.

[I've got it, Master Geralt! Moglad promises, carrying the basket carefully to tuck it up onto a mantle that forms out of the wall (with Jaskier's help), glowing with a gentle gold paint winding over it in a pattern of vines and leaves. Just a little touch of something that is not very fucking depressing. Moglad rests next to the basket with little puffs of air, his wings blowing cool air to his pom.

Jaskier aids in the last tossing of rocks, and straps, and glass (not stained, he sees, but rather plain, and distressingly dirty.) The leather bits are stained darker brown and smell of ill will. Everything here is simply... awful.

He doesn't want to be here. But when he stands, his legs and back aching, he feels better to see it all piled away -- and some of it gone completely. It is not healing, necessarily. But it does feel like they are getting somewhere.]

Why, you start with the base! Lucky you that you have one of the famed Architects in this very room. I have some rather recent experience in bringing beauty to what were once ruins. [With a lot of help.] Simplicity is sometimes the best option.

[Jaskier sweeps his hands on a level plane of air in front of him. As his hand moves, the dusty, dirtied floor of Kaer Morhen's secrets churns and transforms, shifting from cold, grey stone to a richly yellow-toned brick, large and forming a pattern of diamonds. Even with the ground itself cleaned up, the place instantly brightens, the lamps flaring a little brighter.] Now. Pillars. I recall the temple having quite a lot of pillars.

[ Mm-hm. Famed indeed.

Jaskier is a whirlwind; Geralt doesn't want to admit how much this entire process is overwhelming him in a way he isn't used to. Tearing it down was one thing. Not easy, but...familiar. The act of destroying. Of these walls being ripped apart. How often has it happened? Too many times to count.

But to build something that shouldn't even exist beneath it, over top of the nightmares that've followed him over the decades, it's. Different. From everything he knows.

Having the foundation helps. He steps over the stone, warmth already filtering in. He presses a hand to a wall and forms the large stained glass windows while Jaskier adds the pillars. Sunlight streams through. Not spring, but not the grey winter frost of the mountains, either. He tries not to think about his last visit. Yennefer, Ciri. The men. The way he'd left Nenneke. He regrets it, though he knows she would not hold it against him.

He hopes she's all right. In the ensuing war. (She always has been.) ]

I had a room. [ The blank void recedes as he steps forward, more of the floor filling in. ] When I stayed here as a boy.

[In an almost uncharacteristic way, Jaskier examines Geralt with each new creation in the space to see whether there is anything resembling disapproval. Not because he thinks his choices are bad (they are not, of course), but because even he can recognize when a situation is delicate, whether or not the other recognizes it as well.

So far, the space is becoming less space and more... more. Not a home, quite yet, but some place one can go to simply be. The gold he chooses is not overly flashy or ostentatious, and matches the hue of a natural stone. The pillars twist with ridges, but it is to have the eye follow the lines smoothly in a slow spiral, to guide them around the temple.

Jaskier sweeps up a bit of lingering dust, going up to a window. He presses his palm to the glass, cold, but not frigid. The sunlight streaming through may be artificial, but it still reflects the color of the windows down across the floor like splashes of spilled paint.

The pillars begin to grow and spread out, forming an arched ceiling above them like a magic dome. Jaskier prints stars and suns across it, painted gold and silver. Decorations, but small and simple ones.]

Did you? [He looks over, where he's tying a bundle of flowers up with a blue ribbon. Moglad takes the bouquet and flies up, tying it to the top of one of the pillars.] Well, then, show me! I'd love to see. Knowing you, I imagine it was quite simple. Plain, even.

[Jaskier might even let it stay that way. As a favor.)]

[ Jaskier's creations help fill the space in a way that Geralt cannot, solely because he relies on memory, not imagination. Like the stairs and walls that abruptly end and go nowhere around Kaer Morhen—since his domain just isn't large enough to hold the keep in full—Geralt struggles with merging the temple into the fortress' underground.

He likes the touches of what isn't normally there. The small, subtle decorations. They shimmer and fade, growing in and out of view, as though an illusion. Perhaps because, in Geralt's mind, they are. They don't belong in what he remembers of the temple, but nor does he wish to rid of them.

The statue of Melitele emerges in the center. Around it arise the hundreds of candles he complained about lighting as a boy.

Then the corridors that wind around towards the series of bedrooms. He shows Jaskier: not as plain as Jaskier might imagine—it's decorated in the style of all rooms in the temple, with golds and warm yellows, rich wood, bright and airy in the way Kaer Morhen isn't—but true to form, it lacks much in personal touch. There is, however, a few books, a small pouch containing old worn dice, some smooth pebbles gathered in the grounds outside.

What is most notable is that there are no weapons. ]

I wasn't here long. [ Still the longest place he's stayed, though, other than Kaer Morhen. He pauses over the dresser, adding the items that once sat in his room upstairs in the keep: the gifts from Julie and Nadine, the ridiculous wolf ears and tail. Jaskier's floral horse, crafted for him what feels like a decade ago. He sets it down and watches it wander back and forth beneath the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Seems more at home here than it did in the main hall.

He glances over his shoulder. ] You have a plant to offer me?

[It's looking surprisingly good. Of course, this is exactly why Jaskier is here, but. He does like the touches Geralt gives, as well. The long, arched corridors. The warmth that matches the main hall.

Jaskier peers into the room that Geralt crafts from nothing -- or from pure memory, he suspects -- stepping in without invitation to move his hand across the dresser, brushing by Geralt's shoulder.

Watching the items from upstairs appear here, Jaskier can guess that this has become more personal. And he does understand. Not from Geralt's perspective, but his own; Kaer Morhen had its warmth, but it was more from the men within it. Now, when it is empty, it is cold. Cold as the winter outside.

Jaskier smiles.] Of course I do, my friend.

[He barely needs to think of it.

Behind the items across the dresser appears a pot, and out of the pot grows a sunflower. Broad, green leaves, and a bright, heavy head with yellow petals to match the temple's entirety. He does not say it, but as the flower grows, he is thinking of that time Geralt told him he was like the spring.]

You had better not let it wilt, or I shall be very ill with you.

[ Jaskier's perception isn't far off from his own. Kaer Morhen is home. It will always be home. But the cold and painful memories held in its walls were offset by his brothers, his family, the safety and comfort he found there with them around him.

Their absence leaves a hollow space in his heart.

Beyond that, it isn't where he spends his days year round. He only returns in the winter. This way, it's—fitting, he thinks. That there will be the temple to represent the other seasons. Kaer Morhen for the frost. And it will not feel so personal, so intimate, to invite someone into the temple. It's meant for that purpose.

He watches the sunflower sprout. His lips curl lightly, and he huffs. Fond, though. He brushes the silky petals. No. He'll not let it wilt. Moglad flutters down, watering can in hand, eager to help as always. Geralt leaves the moogle to it—tucking the basket with the blanket underneath his bed. ]

There's room for you, too. [ Just an offer. ] Plenty of travellers come through.

[ Plenty of empty rooms for guests. If he makes them, Jaskier can claim one. ]

Good job, Moglad! [Jaskier gives the moogle a pat as he follows Jaskier's will to keep the sunflower quite healthy. And it's nice, as he steps back, to see the flower does not look out of place. It suits. It matches.

And if he is honest, Jaskier is very relieved. It is not a complete healing. It may not even be healing at all. He does not think a man can truly heal the things Geralt has suffered -- both the ones the bard knows and the ones he has only imagined based on what he saw in the basement. But if it is not healing, it is moving forward, and it is bright and loving.

It is what he wants for his friend.]

Oh? How generous, Geralt. [As if he needs the invitation. He looks around them, at the sun and stars that have peppered the ceiling out in the hallways, the gifts, the flower. In a way, he feels this reflects the home they have made here, too.] And if you ever want to break in one of those bedrooms, do let me know.

[He teases, giving Geralt a smack on the shoulder. It's only a testament to how warm this whole endeavor has made him that he dips into a bit of innuendo.]

[ Geralt rolls his eyes, leaves the remark about his generosity without comment. He nudges the flower into place. Sunlight shouldn't be streaming in from underground. Nor the breeze or the smell of primrose, of pansies. But it does. The advantage of nothing being real.

He peers out the window, to study the fields of green beyond that shouldn't exist. It is, for the first time, a place he wants to bring people. Warm, tranquil. Free of the memories he doesn't wish to address.

A huff, as he looks at Jaskier. In the background, Moglad fumbles his watering can and hastily tumbles through the air, bumping his head on the way out the door. ]

Are you offering?

[It is a safe assumption that Geralt is finally leaning into the magic this place has. And yes, there is all that mess with the Singularity, and the terrible things that occurred here when they last tried to meet, and there is the memory of being kicked out of his own domain by a creature that is not even real, but it's all... water under the bridge, in a way. Jaskier likes the Horizon. He always has. And he does not want to fear it, even if he fears the Singularity.

Even if, now, he can still feel that distant vibration.

Moglad gives a faint KUPPPoooooooo that Jaskier ignores.]

Geralt. [He flicks the Witcher's shoulder.] On what plane have I ever meant not to offer? [His smile is devilish.] Don't tell me you wish to desecrate the new halls of the Temple of Melitele by fucking? The outrage!

[ More and more, he has been. Drawing on the Horizon's magic. He should be wary of it after what happened. Part of him is. The other part understands, in a way that's difficult to explain, that they are inextricably attached to the Singularity. They can't remove themselves from it. Not any longer.

He snorts. Soft, amused. ] Is she not the symbol of fertility?

[ He's only teasing. Not that he hasn't plans to fuck Jaskier in these halls; he will. But for the moment, it's not what he's seeking. Instead, he tips his head for Jaskier to follow. He leads the bard out the door, towards the corridors lined with stone pillars. Tables form, and he sets upon them a plate of miniature cakes, topped with a single berry. ]

When I first arrived, I hadn't seen a cake in years. [ Nothing like this. Maybe a rare honey cake, when Vesemir graced them after a visit into town. ] Nenneke brought these out that night. Devoured the entire fucking thing before she took two steps.

I'm not making the joke that I am immediately thinking of, and you should be quite thankful for it.

[He won't even think it. But he can give Geralt a grin back, and smack him harder, and -- honestly, if they're going to fuck, anyway, he much prefers it in his own body in reality, as much fun as the Horizon can be. Those are for his distant rendezvous.

As always, Jaskier follows without further pressing, Moglad doing a rather good attempt of being quiet as he finishes his task with the sunflower, then flutters behind them. Even the moogle understands that this place deserves some degree of respect (their fucking aside) and presses his paws to stars on the ceiling as he floats past.

At least he's quiet.]

So an old woman saw through you just as quickly as me. [He laughs, taking in the delicate image. A Witcher being plied with cakes. If Geralt speaks so fondly of her, especially in so few words, then she has truly left her mark.] How is it I'm discovering new things about you after two decades? I'll be dust by the time we've gotten halfway through things.

[ Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the creature swoop down and—delicately—snatch a biscuit off a plate by another table. There's something comical in its solemn act of thievery—not that it is one. Temple's open for all. Even strange flying beasts.

Geralt sits on the couch. The candles flicker, warm, casting a golden glow over the ivory stone. ]

You'd be wise not to call her old in earshot. [ Nenneke is older than he is, and twice as spry. He's fairly fucking sure she'll outlive them all. ] I wasn't difficult to see through as a boy, besides.

[ Not that difficult now, either, but Geralt'll not ever admit that fact. There's fondness, in how he speaks of her, but also a warmth that's rare—even unheard of until now. She shaped him almost as much as Vesemir did. He would not be who he is without her.

He studies Jaskier, amused. ] And your childhood is such common knowledge?

[ He knows shit all about Jaskier's life before they met, too. Not that it bothers him. More than anyone, he understands not every piece of you needs to be laid bare. ]

[Jaskier shoots a level gaze at Geralt, which may lose a little effect as he delicately holds a tiny cake with three long fingers.] You cannot think so ill of me that you'd truly believe I'd comment on a lady's age within earshot.

[He's only done it to Yennefer to insult her, thank you. And she deserved it at the time.

The bard takes a bite -- it's shockingly good, actually -- and laughs.] And you are now?

[Hardly. But he does enjoy that Geralt must think otherwise. He stretches out, his boots held out straight ahead of him, propping his arm on the back of his seat. It truly is such a vast improvement, he's almost forgotten they're in the Horizon. It is so close to moments that they have shared many a time on the road -- someplace quiet and warm that they take refuge in, with little treats on Jaskier's coin, and occasionally he'd pull some new tidbit out of Geralt with this warmth, this old delight.

Nostalgia hits him, warm.]

None of it is very interesting. Besides! I've told you some. You saw my domain. The vineyard. A small part of Julian's life. But I must admit, nowadays, I feel very little of Julian. I haven't been that boy in quite awhile. [He finishes off his cake, licking his fingers clean.] You should have no complaints. You know me better than any other.

[ He leans back, head tilted as he studies Jaskier in the sunlight. Doesn't seem to matter where they go. They end up in the same place. Again and again, together, somehow surviving the bullshit that comes their way. He wonders, now and then, whether Jaskier crossed his path—or if he crossed Jaskier's.

His expression flickers, contemplative. Jaskier was not a boy when they met, but he wasn't grown into the man he is today. Bright-eyed, self-absorbed, full of fanciful dreams. Geralt had scoffed once–over a crackling fire, sharing their first room at the inn. Did the bard really believe the entire Continent would sing his little songs?

Here they are. ]

I know. [ He does. Geralt picks up a small cake. Turns it in his hand to examine it. (Just as he remembered.) ] You don't miss it?

[ Home, that is. Geralt does and he does not. For all that he prefers to think himself less sentimental than Jaskier—and he is, in certain ways—when it comes to matters of home, he has...

Hm. He supposes he's a closer family than Jaskier, in the Witchers. Not that one requires a family of that nature. He does not say it, but Jaskier's family is with him, with them, and if that satisfies the bard, then that is all which is needed. ]

[It does not surprise him at all that Geralt doesn't pick at it further. Offers no additional question, does not press into that nebulous cloud that is Jaskier's past. It is not that his intention is to hide or obscure it, to be sure, but he simply considers it outlier to his life, not a part of the path. It is not what brought him to where he is today. It is not what made him who he is.

Jaskier decided that. When he decided on his name, when he was no longer only Julian. When he convinced himself he would, in time, be the Continent's greatest bard.

He wasn't wrong. Which only fuels Jaskier's belief that he is never wrong.]

Does sunlight and cake turn you philosophical, old friend? [Jaskier pokes at him with the toe of his boot, teasing.] If you mean home, I never truly had one. And if you meant the Continent, well, we left right as a war that will surely tear the land asunder truly began. I don't miss that. [He brushes crumbs off his lap, then glances out the window (and how nice it is to be able to see sunlight, even down here.)] The only thing I miss is the things I could have done there. The people I could have helped. That's all.

[ His lips turn up at the corners. A brief flash before he pops the cake into his mouth and chews. He is, as Jaskier well knows, often philosophical. Just doesn't speak it out loud. His thoughts are his own; he seldom cares to make them known.

A war threatens to tear this land asunder, too. But he does understand. What Jaskier means. He'd said similar himself—the Continent. It was never home. Just had the people who became that to him. ]

You've helped them here. [ Not the same people. But Jaskier has. In the ways that matter, that they can see and feel.

He does not add that Jaskier has helped him, too. More than he'll ever put into words. ]

I've come to like the desert. [ Imagine that. The cold is preferable, of course. But Geralt, perhaps, has always been taught to appreciate what the wilds can provide. Whether that's from dusty sand or lush evergreen. ] Not as much the wasteland it appears.

[Jaskier stills except for his fingers, running along the edge of his seat. Moglad has seen fit to give them privacy; or, more likely, he can sense the dip of Jaskier's thoughts into the morose well that he lingers above.]

Not in the same way. [He turns back to Geralt, his smile returned to where it belongs. It is arrogance to think the elves need him, and it's not what he truly believes. But that's what he wanted. Needed. He needed to help them, because he'd seen... what Nilfgaard would do to them. To what any oppressor does to those so oppressed.

And now the Sandpiper is gone. His heart grows heavy. For what is there but for them to think he has abandoned them?]

You're out of your gourd. This desert is horrid! [He laughs, though, and he cannot help it that Geralt's abject seriousness about such stupid things is still funny to him, after all these years.] You simply won't admit it's the people that make it so enjoyable. Which, you're welcome, by the way. Obviously I'm one of them.

[ A melancholy blankets them. Geralt doesn't interrupt, lost a bit in his own thoughts as Jaskier contemplates. It's not that he's callous about the horror befalling the elves. He more than understands how it feels to watch the slaughter of your people, solely for what they are. Perhaps he is just. Tired. Of the world, and the blood that stains it.

Some part of him envies Jaskier's ability to hope for brighter things.

He laughs, a huff of breath that escapes him. He isn't lying; he has learned to like it. Maybe it's innate, born from being displaced onto the unforgiving Blue Mountains at an early age.

Though. True. The people can't be discounted. Bard included. Amusement crosses his face. ] Oh, are you? Suppose it's too late to get rid of you now.

[ Twenty some years too late. ]

[Jaskier pops another cake into his mouth, the moroseness, for the moment, alleviated. He does not want to bring it into such a newly created space, warm and bright. Melitele does not deserve such dark thoughts in her sacred place.

Nor does Geralt. At least one of them must have a spark of hope.]

Mm, I'll say. You're procrastinating terribly if you still have such a thing planned. [There's tea, too, that appears simply because Jaskier wants it, with a light, simple taste to go with the cakes. He feels a similar soreness to his body as if he had moved the construction himself, because he wants it.

To savor the feeling of creation. Of true work.

Then he jumps up.] Ah! This place is missing one final touch. [He finds a wall that is plain enough, tracing his finger over it in a large arch, from his feet to over his head. As he steps back, the door begins to create itself: large, heavy, and wooden, with a design of tree trunks and spiraling vines spreading through its leaves. As he pushes it open, there in front of them is Bleobheris, the glade unfurled at its roots.] So you remember where else you are always welcome. [He turns with a smile.] Really, it's for me to get over here simpler. I don't like simply... popping up. [And he doesn't need one of his horses trying to eat the wolf.

Or vice versa.]

[ A final touch, hm? Geralt watches the bard leap up with renewed vigour; as for himself, he simply stays seated, lounging on the couch as he waits for Jaskier to unveil whatever it is.

A door, apparently. Carved in a rich wood, appearing just behind a set of pillars and hanging plants. He tilts his head. His lips curl with the faintest smile, and he hums. The golden stars above shimmer. ]

Practical. [ Sentimental. He doesn't say it. There is a warmth that goes beyond the spring weather, which settles over the temple. ] Tell your pet he can't gorge on all the cakes when he visits.

[ Is he inviting the creature in? Perhaps. It is, after all, just another part of his friend, imbued into a strange flying bear. And down here amongst the candlelight and decorative windows, he accepts the idea of guests and visitors a bit more. Kaer Morhen is isolated for a reason. The temple is meant to be open. ]

( Time passes in curious ways — all of this still felt new in so many ways, in part because there still lacked a rhythm to the day to day. Restlessness was to blame, the sort of fire in the blood that never truly settled (too many desires left to chase, of learning magic or of finding her foothold here, a surprising hunger for the need of some power to call her own). It would be arrogant, and unfair to call it all a cage, but the feeling wasn’t entirely different — limiting and limited.

The horizon was an outlet and an escape, it turned out. A dangerous thing to be tempted into such habits — it would not do her any good to live inside her own head and forget all that was around her.

And yet — it was the only place she could see her Syrax, a perfect memory of the real thing, down to the warmth underhand, and the feel of her scales and her heart felt whole in those scant moments she allowed herself. Powerful, like she had the strength of a dragon back within her grasp.

With such a time, she had grown bolder within this dreamscape, and had flown farther out beyond the bounds (more time spent on dragon-back, in fact, than she had in the recent months before being brought here, and more time spent in the air than within her own constructed Dragonstone); it was just enough to be struck with a thought — she had not tried to venture into any other horizon, and curiosity threatened to get the best of her.

It surprised her, to some degree, that her first thought of venture was to Geralt. But he had said that the wolf is still waiting for you, a reminder of open invitation. A curious man who bore reminders to her own world without being from it — a common understanding found between without the notion of family names and loyalties implied. He was familiar, in so many ways and so towards such invitation she goes.

It is with a rumbling roar that Syrax breaches the horizon, a glimmering beast of brilliant gold emerging down from the clouds to descend towards the keep on the mountainside, with the intrinsic, undefinable knowledge that she was somehow in the right place.

The she-dragon circles once, just enough time for Rhaenyra to glimpse the faint outline of a white wolf below, before they land not too far away with an uplift of snow and small stones. When Rhaenyra is on the ground, Syrax shifts to follow a short distance behind with a rolling chirp — a perfect reflection, a testament to whatever bond had pulled her from her rider’s soul to take shape in this in-between.

Rhaenyra’s voice is mellow and quiet, as she approaches the big, fluffy beast. With some amusement: ) And you must be the Wolf.

[ A dragon's roar is the last thing he expects to hear above the keep. Geralt is underneath it—within the newly built temple he's started to find refuge in—but the heavy beat of wings can only mean one visitor. Who else claimed to be a dragon rider? His invitation given a few weeks ago, he's wondered when she would show. (Somehow, in his mind, it was a question of when, not if. He can't say why he was certain they would meet here eventually. Perhaps, he simply had the thought that if she did not come to him first, he would seek her out instead.)

The wooden doors swing open. Geralt steps out between them—and sure enough, a dragon sits in the middle of Kaer Morhen.

And that, he sees, as he looks up at it, is one fucking dragon. The scales that shine under the bright winter sun.

Gold. Of course.

His gaze travel from it to Rhaenyra to the wolf—who sniffs her cautiously, then the dragon. It's scarred in places, with eyes that match his. Even a tint of grey to its white coat—impossible to tell if that's from roaming about in the Horizon wilderness. Bleached bones lie under its feet. Old. Casually littered beneath the snow like stepping stones. ]

Dramatic arrival. [ A tug of his lips greets her. ] Just like a queen.

(A question of when, not if; some things are assured in ways that will remain beyond them, perhaps.

It is a rather frivolous arrival, her in her dragonrider's coat, black fabric like dragonscales, hair windswept (still so terribly curious, how this in-between felt so real and not all at once; how she had to wonder at the winter chill nipping at cheeks, or the warmth starting to rise from her boon companion's hide at odds with the temperatures).

Her mouth ticks upward, glance between wolf and host; impossible not to note their cluster of similarities as she offers up an open palm for the canine's inquisitiveness. Syrax huffs, a long thing that lifts up more snow, ruffles at white-grey fur, head lowered in a cursory exchange.

Likely, this is the most relaxed Rhaenyra had felt in the time spent, and the subdued smile turns a bit more genuine, harkens back to some lighter youth. Targaryens are partial to memorable entrances. Wryly: ) I could not resist.

It is the only way I can see her, ( she says, by way of explanation, and the tone of her voice is mildly sheepish. ) I admit, I would be restless to be parted more than I already am.

( but — more to the point, her attention shifts upwards, to the keep around them. It looks like its endured much, through long decades; bleached bones amidst the yard. a brow arches up; carefully: ) Your home?

[ His head is still tilted, peering up at the dragon. There isn't much he holds onto from his childhood, but he growing up, he'd always wanted to see a dragon. (First to slay them—where the imaginations of boys tend to go—and then to simply meet one.) When he finally did it was, as all things become, much more complicated than he imagined.

But he has not forgotten Villentretenmerth. How could he?

He glances back at her. He nods his understanding. Yeah. He knows how that is. The desire to recreate what's gone. Left behind. ] Gold dragons are near mythical on my sphere.

[ He leaves the dragon and the wolf be. Maybe they'll be fast friends. Who knows? He tips his head for Rhaenyra to follow. The air is frosty; she'll appreciate the relative warmth inside. Emphasis on relative. Still drafty as fuck within, though Geralt is dressed lightly, sleeves rolled up, as though the cold isn't a bother. ]

Mm. Trained and raised in these walls. [ She'll pass his much more modest steed—a black mare grazing in her stall—as they walk towards the keep. The heavy wooden doors creak open. The braziers are lit, cooking fire blazing. Scorched walls and battle-scarred floors aside, the hall is surprisingly well-kept. Swept, tidy, with fresh bread and ale laid out. The medallions sway from the ancient tree. A noticeable absence is carved into the room, long tables meant for dozens of men who are no longer here. ] It's bigger back home.

( near mythical he says, and there's a tick of brows upwards, in a soft sort of surprise.

the older one gets, the less starry-eyed one becomes; duty replaces freedom, even if the splendor of dragons does not fade (did she not weep, when she first conjured hers in this place of magic?). but will there come a day when the great wyrms are something like myths for westeros? would they be still seen as nearly godlike, or would they be something reviled? a startling line of thought, given what it would mean for her house (given how close such things are to hearth and home). But all she can find herself saying is: ) That sounds like a rather lonely mantle to behold.

( but she follows along, sidling to walk by his side with a glance behind of her own. perhaps they will be fast friends; one might even hope to find them basking in the winter sun when they return. this place could use a bit more warmth, to be sure.

inside is less drafty than outdoors, by virtue of the heavy stone, but certainly not without. she can't help but look closely at their surroundings, before her eyes find the medallion tree. ) Made bigger by the people in it, I imagine.

( she drifts a little forward, made curious by the medallions above, before she turns to look at his own. ) This is for remembrance? ( in some strange way, it reminds her of the Iron Throne, albeit in far gentler ways. )

It is. [ If he no longer sounds as though he's referring solely to dragons, he adds nothing more to clarify.

He lets her venture through the hall, settling against a stone pillar to watch her. It isn't a place he shares with many. Even those closest to him have only been invited inside once or twice. For Geralt, Kaer Morhen remains a home that is not meant for outsiders—and he's aware it isn't the most welcoming to strangers, either.

Still. She fits into the surroundings a bit more than others have. He doesn't say that it's bigger without the people, actually, though not in the manner she means. It's too big. Hollow. ]

Yes. [ He takes a few steps forward to join her. ] More of us on that tree than standing these days.

[ Or. On the Continent, at least. Here, he's the only one. The first, the last. He's made his peace with that. His kind have been dying out since he was a boy. This was always the end that laid ahead. But she can see, probably, from that tree that there was never very many of them to begin with. ]

( bigger or smaller, any such place would be most sharply shaped by the people within it.

perhaps grandness is a poor measure to begin with — perhaps it’s a question of warmth, although her own halls had felt so cold in the last weeks before abrasax.

so maybe the heart of it is simply complex. it is warm and cold and big and small and happiness and pain. there are faces missed amidst something as familiar as your home. absent or lost or simply far away and all they have is nostalgia and that hollow feeling to try and fill.

and really, she’s not so unfamiliar with the mantle of loneliness, and the tightness of her jaw tells her understanding.

it feels — reverent, to stand before this tree, or be shown this hall, in some way.

it is no throne room, but there is power to it, she thinks and the enormity of the tree no longer so much reminds her of the Iron Throne, as much as balerion’s skull, hanging impossibly immense above a thousand candles.

A greater shadow than the throne. ) I have to say I understand that sentiment quite closely, as of late.

( the soft clink of them above holds her gaze. ). And I suppose here we are, the sole progenitors of long shadows.

Do they mean something unique to each hunter?

[ He grows quiet. His fingers curl around the edge of the table beside him. The wood is thick, heavy, and he finds the grooves he's come to memorize beneath its surface. She has told him she was on the cusp of imminent war, but she has not said how her kingdom has been faring. Maybe it doesn't matter, who sits at the edge of victory, when the losses are in your own halls.

His gaze lingers on her for a second or two. Then he looks back at the gnarled ancient trunk. ]

Mm. [ Here they are. Though he thinks, with time, they can build something else. Perhaps not what they hoped to, but if anything being in these walls have taught him, it's that there's warmth to be found in the coldest halls.

He gestures at one of the hanging medallions. ] Sometimes. When we become Witchers, we're handed our swords and a medallion. Might be given to you by a teacher, a mentor. Others have theirs inscribed. It only comes off when our path ends.

[ And not all of them make it to the tree. Just the ones who are found. Some are lost forever in a stinking swamp or a muddy field where they died. ]

[ The creature cast ashore has drawn everyone's interest. Geralt is no different, even if he's kept afar. More than enough have arrived to assist; he imagines too many, and efforts will go from helpful to a hindrance.

When night falls, though, he ventures out. For a walk, in part, to clear his head. With the portals opened to Aquila, it seems worthwhile to take advantage. Even if he fucking hates them. (He's a bit more used to it now.)

His intention is not to stop by the sandy shores. What draws him there first is the faint hum from his medallion—magic cast near—and when he comes a bit closer, he realizes a familiar silhouette is crouched over the massive sea jelly. He'd noticed her absence in the house; he'd just not given it much thought. Rinwell can more than take care of herself. So long as he sees she's taken Hootle and her belongings with her, he knows she's all right.

So this is where she went. Geralt steps forward. ] Rinwell.

Edited 2023-01-15 20:11 (UTC)

[ Rinwell had been one of those interested in the beached creature. There wasn't anything quite like it that she'd encountered back home, in terms of water monsters. The day light hours had involved hanging back and running errands when others might see her. Given her size, her statue, her apparent youth, it was easy for her to not be given too much notice. Just enough to be helpful. Not enough to stand out.

By day, anyway.

Night, now. Night is when she sneaks closer to the creature. Without the heat of the sun, the risk of drying out is reduced. But not gone entirely. So, once she's certain no one's paying much attention beyond keeping the area secure for the squid-things sake, she slips past the guards and sneaks as close as she can manage. Rinwell isn't afraid of the electricity, but she does respect it - she won't risk being zapped over a few water spells. The pages of her book hum, a faint blue glow obscured by the bulk of the creature on the sands; around it, the fall of a light rain, droplets dashing as she squeezes water out of the astral energy she can feel in the world around them.

But the jellyfish can't hide the casting from those sensitive to magic - or those bearing objects that handle that for them, for that matter.

The book snaps shut, and there's an almost guilty backstep as Rinwell turns about, the astral energy put on hold - literally; the energy is contained, for the moment, but she can let it seep back into the world after a little while. (There's a soft fuufuu from the hood of her light coat, white feathery head popping up to greet Geralt as his voice carries.) ]

..Hi. [a beat] You were looking for me?

[ He comes to her side when she looks up. His head tips: a yes, but also no in answer. Geralt's often been careful not to hover over Rinwell. He worries, of course; she's young, reminds him too much of the Ciri he remembers before he found her in this world a grown woman. He also knows—like Ciri—that she can more than take care of herself. ]

Took a walk. But I noticed you weren't home.

[ He crouches down beside both Rinwell and the sea jelly. Never seen anything like it. The Continent is bordered by the ocean, but reaching the coast takes weeks, if not months, of travel. On occasion, he'll take a contract in a coastal town or visit Skellige, but his encounters with what lurks beneath the waves remains infrequent.

He gives Hootle a small scratch on the head, if it'll allow him. ]

You're helping it?

[ CLOSED ] deep below the earth

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