( OPEN ) cold ground got a hold on me

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Jaskier, Yennefer; You
When: September // Septeril
Where: Aefenglom
What: Full moon + events/quests later
Warnings: Body horror

[ prompts in comments. find me at discontinued for plotting. ]

OPEN: quests + wildcard

CLOSED: full moon | wish break

Comments

♞ jaskier + yennefer

[gynvael]

(( HAVEN; 09/02; dusk ))
[ As the full moon inches closer, Geralt finds himself on edge. Not even an hour or two trying to quiet his mind helps much. There's a bottle of liquor that's tempting. He decides not to risk it. The last thing he needs is a head that's not clear when the changes are about to grip him.

He's told Jaskier to meet him here in the apartment. The bard's home is far too close to Yen's. It isn't exactly about their last conversation. (It is, a bit.) She's not someone he wants to witness the transformation. Not a second time. Hell, he doesn't even want Jaskier to be here for it, but he needs him. The strength of the bond requires proximity and it's what he's relying on to keep lucid. That's the grand fucking plan, in any case.

Just in case, though, Jaskier has the silver dagger now.

He waits downstairs, in the meantime. A hum sets his veins abuzz, either from the incoming moon or something else. He has every intention of making sure they're in the woods before night falls -- and where he'd normally wonder where Jaskier is, he now senses the bard nearby, approaching, before his scent ever hits the air. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier has been looking forward to tonight about as much as he looks forward to falling into a pile of shit. Or maybe a den of wolves. Hah. Alternatively both terrified and... excited. He couldn't help it. Jaskier can't say he's ever seen a man turn into a beast. Werewolves are, indeed, a thing, and if he'd ever seen one transform he would also be dead.

So.

He trusts Geralt. Implicitly. Of course he trusts him. He even hesitates over whether to bring the knife. Dagger. He would not use it. He also knew Geralt would berate him for not taking his safety seriously. He trusts him, and yet, it does not chase the trepidation in him. His trust has not prevented the nightmares he's had reoccurring for a month. For the pain that still shoots through his arm occasionally.

He arrives at Geralt's apartment with the dagger strapped to his thigh. Intentionally for his boot or not, he's not near quick enough to draw it if it's all the way down there.

His heart drums like a trapped bird. He is not afraid of Geralt. And yet... he almost is.

Jaskier doesn't knock. Apparently he doesn't need to. He hits the door with his boot while juggling his lute and a bag, then pushes it open and lets himself in, almost running straight into the Witcher.] Hello, Geralt! [He still sounds bright, as usual, the bond settling between them as it does when they're closer. Sometimes he swears he feels it, like a physical thing. A tug on his chest or in his head. It's also quite obvious to someone who knows him as long as Geralt has that he is forcing it quite a bit.] I hope you ate a big supper already.

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier does, in fact, run into him. Only it's Geralt, so he hardly moves as Jaskier bumps up against him. He raises an eyebrow. It's undeniably forced cheer. Geralt doesn't need the bond to know that. ]

I snacked. [ That's about as much dry humor as he's willing to muster right now. Unlike Jaskier, he's taken nothing with him: not his swords, not his bag. His clothes are minimal, too. He doesn't plan on staying in them for long.

He lets the door swing shut behind him and heads towards the street, in the direction of the woods. The sun is still in the sky, but it's beginning to sink low. ]

You bring what I asked? [ The sleeping powder -- something more potent than what was used on the deer. He doesn't know if they'll need it, but he wants to be prepared. ]

♞ open to all :: quests

[gynvael]

(( AEFENGLOM + DORCHACHT ))
I. APPLE A DAY; 09/07; morning-afternoon

[ Removing the moths is the main reason why Geralt's here at this farm, but there are two reasons he winds up picking apples against all intentions: 1) a woman with greying hair shoving a sack into his hands and telling him, with no room for argument, that while the moths can be removed any time, the apples must be ready for the festival; and 2) the cunes for said apples are decent.

So here he is. Plucking fruit from a tree. He's careful of the moths, as much as he can be. His susceptibility to illusions here is in question and beyond that, even if he remains unaffected as usual, it doesn't mean he can't see them. It only means that he recognizes them for what they are: smoke and mirrors, not reality. He'd rather not glimpse whatever nightmare vision this land has deemed appropriate. Problem is, he's not alone. The combination of money and danger means those who have come here belong in two categories: folks who know what they're doing and folks who don't give a damn that they don't know what they're doing. It's the latter that catches him sooner or later, a plume of dust that rises from a nearby tree, likely from someone disturbing an unseen nest.

He sighs. Ah, shit.

Geralt starts off to make a quick escape. As if he'll stick around a batch of farmhands for whatever the fuck he might start seeing. He's well aware of what lurks in his mind. But the effects are quicker. He's only a few steps out of the trees when the entire landscape changes: stone walls that rise in various states of ruin. He blinks, stopping short. When he lifts his foot, there's blood sticking, pools of it congealed on the stone floors.

Anyone in the area may or may not glimpse a share of his vision from remnants of the dust -- either dozens of bodies strewn across the scorched ground of the keep in what's clearly a fight they've lost, some who are children; or just one child, a boy no more than thirteen. At first glance, the resemblance isn't entirely clear, but there are streaks of grey and white in the boy's brown hair and his eyes shine with the same gold color. He's throwing up blood on the ground, a sickly smell of herbs and something rotting in the air.

Either way, you'll definitely spot Geralt staring at something. And when he finally forces himself to walk off, he doesn't hesitate to shoulder aside whoever is in his path, too distracted to pay attention. Fucking apples. ]

II. NEW MANAGEMENT; 09/08-11; anytime

[ Effectively living in this city means Geralt has an interest in knowing when something changes within it. He's learned it pays to know what's going on in a town. Which is why he's coming by the orphanage once he hears a Mirrorbound has taken over.

Naturally, he's of no intention to work there. The only children he's been around were the boys training at Kaer Morhen, an entirely different circumstance and not an experience that applies. He only means to linger nearby, to see what he might learn.

But what he means to do and what actually ends up happening rarely align. Any Mirrorbound working with the kids can convince him to help: either moving heavy items or chasing down a lost child. Or they might pass by on the street to find him begrudgingly halfway up a nearby tree where a cat has made its home high on the branches, a small group of children surrounding the base of said tree.

(Can't even fucking tell them to find someone else since he'll only scare Lady Bella off, because cats apparently no longer despise him here. It's one more reminder of exactly what's changed. And look, he's --

He doesn't have a good reason why he's ended up here. He's just going to pretend it never happened.) ]

III. WILDCARD

(( Geralt can be easily found in various taverns in the city, as well as in the woods and close to the Wilde, usually with his horse. Feel free to bump into him. ))

an apple a day because I'm a bad person

[foundfamilies]

[ Leslie's own observational skills aren't quite so honed as the Witcher's, so with her attention on not disturbing a nest, she only realizes that something has gone wrong from the sounds of other people suddenly moving much more quickly, and by the time she looks up, it's too late.

(She had tried using a spell Momo taught her -- a pink bubble barrier around her nose and mouth intended to filter out spores -- but either the dust affected her through a different means than being inhaled or she made a mistake in casting it, or likely both.)

Though she knew about the moths' effects, she is intially disoriented by the change in scenery, and only more disoriented by how this isn't one of her nightmares. It's not even like any place she's ever been.

She doesn't take the time to think any further on the landscape with the bloody scene in front of her. Searching for the potential victims of the Nuckelavee, narrowly avoiding becoming a victim of the Nuckelavee, and dreaming of many related nightmares over the past couple of weeks have given her a great deal more experience in seeing gore of this kind, so she barely manages to keep her stomach from rebelling.

It's still A Lot, though. She hugs herself as she tries to work up the nerve to move. ]

I'm dreaming. This is a dream. It's the moths. It's not real....

[ But even as she mumbles these reassurances to herself, she forgets that it is just an illusion when she sees a boy about her age vomitting blood on the floor. It's the idea that someone might be as hurt as that which causes her legs to move as she breaks into an unsteady sprint.

With how shaken she is, it does not take a lot of force to knock her over. Geralt probably only barely feels it as the two collide. Leslie does manage to catch herself, only her hands and trousers making contact with the ground to pick up illusory blood stains (thank goodness they will not have to be washed out in the real world). Her hair falls out as the tam o' shanter-like cap she'd tucked it into comes tumbling off. ]

Mr. Geralt?

[ She sounds concerned -- not for herself, but for him. Given the scene, she assumes his hurry must be because he can't bear to look at the bodies any longer. Which, like, mood. ]

[gynvael]

[ The small form that collides with him is one that Geralt almost doesn't notice. It takes half a second before he glances down, blinking. ]

Leslie? [ Shit. His brows furrow, reaching down to help her up and hand her cap back to her. Great. Now he's seeing things and barrelling over a young girl. ] Fuck. Sorry.

[ He realizes she's not looking at him, though. Or she is, but she's also looking behind him and around her. Wait. Can she see this? (Don't tell him she can see this.) The scenery flickers in and out, the grass and orchard clearly hidden beneath. He doesn't want to be here. He sure as fuck doesn't want Leslie witnessing it with him.

Even as he's guiding her away from the mess of visions (is that possible, when it's attached to him?), an awful scream comes from behind. The boy begins to convulse, and it's becoming clear he's not wounded as simply sick. Extremely so, from the inside out. ]

You shouldn't be here.

ii (which we can soon enough shift into grabbing drinks!)

[exsoldier]

[ It had been a relief to hear that one of the Mirrorbound had managed to make an orphanage space for some kids who would have otherwise been forced into hard labor. Zack might have a different perspective on this than most, having left home for Midgar with dreams of joining SOLDIER at the age of thirteen, but...

Still, some of these kids are even younger than that. They deserve to have real childhoods.

He's swung by to check things out for himself when he spots a large group of kids circled around a tree -- and a man. A familiar man. Zack pauses for a moment, watching the commotion from a distance as he realizes that a cat stuck in a tree is to blame for all this. It's pretty funny to see Geralt of all people in a predicament like this.

Eventually Zack decides to take pity on him, shrugging his shoulders as he walks over. Some of the kids glance up at him when he approaches, and he grins and nods to them in greeting. He can't help but think of some of the kids in the slums who Aerith had watched over and checked in on. ]

Need a hand?

sounds good!

[gynvael]

[ It's to be expected that he'll be spotted up here in the damn tree. Geralt knows he's not hard to miss. Still, he was hoping to avoid it, not because he cares about his predicament (maybe a little) but because he doesn't want a reputation as someone who fetches stray felines from trees for a group of children. That is not what his profession entails.

And yet. He's up here.

Geralt looks down at the familiar voice. A brief frown crosses his features. Zack. He remembers him -- from more than one place. That scent that drifts through the air is fainter than it was that night, but he recognizes it.

So Yennefer wasn't the only one who ran into him. ]

Depends. Can you catch? [ He's not serious. Geralt grabs the cat by the scruff, ignoring its irritated hiss and a scratch from its claws. Lack of finesse aside, he gets the job done. (Without tossing the cat.) He drops to the ground, angry bundle of fur still in his hands. The children are crowding intently. He sighs, releasing her to the nearest girl before it can chew up his arm. ] Came to babysit?

🍎🍎🍎

[usurpers]

[ eren had been filling a second knitted sack of apples before a scent had rolled with the constant flicking of his tongue. someone that contrasted with the fruit's sweetness and the tree bark, far more than the others that had walked about, come and gone— he's seen all their faces, all except for this one. this one . . . he knew what was beneath the husk of his flesh. he knew, set his bag on the floor against burly roots and went after the whisk of silver hair he'd only caught in passing.

why did he look so familiar from behind? the dragon had only seen the lingering tremors of the rumbling, glimpses of people scampering and then beautiful scenery of stretching clouds that spelled liberty. but now came something else, bodies with no life in them, wide dead eyes seeming to stare at him and thinking to himself with a pull away of his attention this isn't mine. nevertheless, he doesn't stop to look more at the imagery painting his feet and instead, hunts after the turnskin in a fast walk. one that hastily ends in the seven foot tall, far more human-shaped monster reaching for the other's arm and give it an intrusive yank (and his blue-hued forked tongue being so long at its farthest that it touched upon him to seal his query).

it wasn't meant to be so aggressive, but eren was curious and geralt had been in a bit of a rush he had to catch up to. that had indeed been the only intent in his pin slit blue eyes as they station wide onto the man's face: questioning. they only turn even more questioning when recognition of another mirrorbound from so many months ago is what he thinks he sees. ]

[gynvael]

[ Nightmare illusions or a pleasant sunny day, Geralt does not like to be grabbed. He sure as shit does not like to be grabbed, then licked. What -- ? In the hell. He almost doesn't realize he's even been licked. The tongue that flickers over his skin isn't that of a human tongue at all.

And where he might've retained enough awareness to recognize the scent as familiar or that there's no threat in the other's body language, the bloodied corpses that surround him puts him on edge: the moment he feels someone jerking him, he turns on instinct, faster than any man should. A dagger appears in his hand, drawn in a blink from where it's concealed beneath his jacket.

The blade goes up, turned sideways towards the other man's throat -- though he stops just short of actually pressing it against the other's neck, his position more defensive than anything. It's only then that Geralt blinks. He looks up. Huh. That's some height. Some eyes, too. His own golden ones stare back, narrowed. ]

What the fuck do you want?

{ 🍎 }

[benedicus]

( while aziraphale wasn't particularly fond of the idea that he needed to work in order to live comfortably, he was starting to get used to the idea of undertaking quests. it wasn't all that bad, really. there have been some obvious hiccups here and there, of course, but it was occasionally rather fun and sometimes a little exciting. it reminded him a bit of what his life had been long many ages ago, performing tasks and undertaking roles in order to further the purpose of good.

the idea behind this morning's task wasn't too difficult. delicate, but not difficult.

or at least that's what he had thought. several others had also agreed to assist with retrieving the apples from the moths and many of them were nothing more than bumbling fools who were so caught up in the reward money that they failed to pay any attention at all. he had hoped to keep enough distance from the those individuals that it wouldn't entirely matter, but he notices a pale haired man abruptly flee after catching a dusting to the face. he knows he should leave matters well enough alone, but he still abandons his ladder to follow after him.

the landscape shifts underneath aziraphale's feet as he walks after the other man, fading away from the grove into ruined stone walls. the place had been decimated and aziraphale feels a sharp pang in his heart. he had seen countless scenes like this before, seen the price of war, and it never really gets easier. for as fantastic as humans were, they were also fantastically cruel.

he glances away from the visions of the dead to the person he knows to still be living. )

Are you alright? I don't mean to intrude, but—

( he looks back at the broken bodies, grimacing. )

This can't be easy to see.

[gynvael]

[ The point, Geralt thinks, is that the visions might be personal to the individual. As in, while he's certainly making a hasty retreat, he doesn't expect anyone to be able to see why.

It's the only reason he stops, startled. He glances over his shoulder. The man a few feet away is noticeably out of place amongst the corpses and crumbling stones. His memories are hardly perfectly detailed after so long, and so a few of the worn down walls seem, oddly, more a result of decades passing than the violence that's occurred. ]

Fine. [ It comes out gruffly. There's a pause as he considers walking again, but he realizes the effectiveness of trying to outrun his own fucking mind is about zero. There's an unsettling solidness to the bodies and his surroundings; where he brushes the blood stained on a wall and expects his hand to go through as it should, his fingers come away wet and sticky.

He frowns. Is the stranger even real? (He wants to say yes, but.) ] You shouldn't be seeing this. How'd you get here?

II.

[sing_for_me]

[ There was something about the carefree nature of children that Alex found refreshing, and with her mind and body bogged down with the loss of her bond the depletion of magic, this was a little slice of heaven to her. At least, until the kids started throwing out one demand after another. Play tag with me, play hide and seek with me, I'm hungry, they won't let me play with them!

Ah yes, the precious little treasures...But worth it. The latest demand brought Alex back to her old nemesis.

Really, did the kite have to get stuck in a tree? As she approaches the tree one of the children had pointed to, she looks up to find---something that was certainly not a kite. Her eyes go from the rather bulky man clinging to a branch, to the cat on the very end. Suddenly, there was a look of total empathy and understanding in her gaze. She was well aware of what it was like to be in that position... ]

I can..wait till your done.

[ The merrow will even look away. ]

[gynvael]

[ Reality states that, at some point, someone will approach him for why the fuck he's in a tree. So when a woman appears beneath him with another batch of children, he only looks vaguely resigned at his ever-growing audience.

At least he'll have someone to catch the cat. In case it goes, uh. Jumping off. (He doesn't actually know what cats are like. All they do is hiss at him and run away; his experiences are limited.)

He puts a foot on one of the outer branches, which seems to hold his weight, and then reaches forward to grab the cat. A distressed yowl fills the air. He grips its squirming body and ignores its kicking white paws. When he drops down, it's straight from where he's up in the tree several feet up.

The squirming cat goes into the arms of one the little girls. And yeah, fine. The children look overjoyed. Might be worth the couple scratches on his arms for the trouble. Not that he's about to do this again if their cat goes back up the damn tree.

His gaze shifts to the woman, roaming over her appearance -- the scales, mostly -- and then her scent. Hmm. Have they met? ]

You their guardian?

wildcard! weird man caught lurking at local magic tattoo parlor

[tryhard]

The first time Waver passes one of the large windows in the front room as he's putting something away and he sees someone peeking into the shop, he only barely notices and doesn't think much of it. The second time, a few minutes later, bustling between the front shelves lined with various stones and wrought metal and some other area out of sight, Waver does take note. Someone lurking outside, peering into the window but mostly just out of sight.

Maybe they're waiting for someone. Maybe they're just after the shade under the awning for a few minutes. Waver's in the middle of something, and doesn't take the time to investigate immediately.

But when he comes back out with a tray of new stones for the display and sees the shape yet again lurking around outside the window, he begins to get annoyed.

The white hair had caught his eye. But he never got a good enough look. He hasn't put it all together yet.

Not until he finally loses his patience and throws open the front door with force as if ready to catch a criminal red-handed.

"Hey! If you're not going to be coming in, there's no loitering around--"

Waver freezes, leaned out of the doorway, mouth open. He stares.

The scent is familiar, though not entirely the same; even under the seasalt smell of the ocean breeze, sweat and lingering summer heat, he can tell. The white hair suddenly clicks into place. The eyes.

Berserker had warned him, but it still feels... so strange. Waver closes his mouth, and swallows.

"...Geralt?"

[gynvael]

The shops that line the streets of Aefenglom vary between familiar and not. Some sell items recognizable to him; others are just strange enough he finds himself curious. This is the latter: a shop the purports to enchanted inked designs. Tattoos, apparently.

Brandings and markings aren't unheard of. But they're certainly not bought and sold as a common trade. The idea of them, though, is one he lingers on. He's not a mage. Magic has never been a deep part of him, as it would be for someone like Yennefer. He still feels its loss, more of an irritation than anything, when he reaches for a Sign that no longer casts. Perhaps --

-- Movement interrupts his thoughts. He glances up, already turning to take his leave. He's not interested in starting something with the shopkeeper. Then his name comes. He frowns. Fuck. He knows that look. It's the same one he'd seen from the man weeks ago. His first few days here. Like they've seen a ghost.

"If you know me by more than name alone, I'm not him."

[tryhard]

Waver is already well-aware. Even if he didn't look and sound different as he does, Berserker has shared enough about his encounter with this 'new' Geralt to have given Waver a heads up some time ago. Not that Berserker is the sharing type, so Waver appreciates it even more. Considering how shocked he feels with some manner of warning already, he'd probably have made a complete fool of himself if he'd been completely taken off guard.

As it is, he manages to muffle the sigh that sticks in his throat-- though he can't consciously do much about the way his ears droop unhappily, tail uncurling slightly behind him. This is... uncomfortable.

But that hardly matters now. He has to say something. He has to acknowledge it. There's no point in lingering in disappointment and this misplaced feeling of nostalgia. He has no problems admitting it's selfish, but even so, it seems unfair to Geralt. It's not his fault any more than it is anyone else's who gets pulled in by the whims of whatever's controlling the mirrors.

After an awkwardly too-long beat, Waver only nods.

"Yeah. I know." He takes a step forward, standing at the top of the handful of steps that lead up to the doorway.

"I know your name already, so in the spirit of fairness... I'm Waver. Waver Velvet. This is my shop. Now, is there a reason you were sticking your nose in the window or not?"

♞ jaskier

[gynvael]

(( HAVEN; 09/10; evening ))
[ The second Geralt realizes something has gone wrong, he contacts Jaskier. Or, no. Not the second. It takes longer than that for him to gather what the fuck might've happened: the sharp snapping and tear, one he can't describe because he's never felt anything like it before. It's not pain in any of the ways he's known intimately.

He waits just outside her cottage gates. Impatience hums beneath his skin. As much as he wants to run off to search for her, he knows better than to rush about blind. So he waits. He waits for Jaskier, who already seemed to know before he'd spoken to him. Funny. Magic now ties him and Jaskier, and him and Yennefer --

Who the hell knows. He can only hope she hasn't...

Fuck. He doesn't want to complete that thought.

When he spots the shadow of the bard making his way down the street (he can already sense Jaskier coming long before he sees him), Geralt looks up. His expression is steady, but his hands give him away: claws that have grown sharper without his noticing, thicker and darker, almost black in color. ]

Jaskier. [ He hands over the wineglass that'd been on her garden table. Something recent she's come in contact with. ] Can you use this?

[cointosser]

[As much time as he's spent communicating (or attempting to) with Geralt, he knows whatever happened could not come out across text. After Jaskier has picked himself off the ground, gasping for breath, his heart nearly collapsing in his chest, he grabbed for the device. Geralt, where are you? Are you all right?

He was, and Geralt had assumed the worst of him as well. But something had happened. Something that wasn't the two of them, which could only mean one goddamn thing. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It was Yennefer. Of course it was! The blasted woman had been so confident of her little bird. And Jaskier had been right to worry. This just bloody proved it.

He couldn't be angry. He wasn't. No, instead he was worry -- sick with it, so much that he nearly vomited in his own garden after the first message. It was overwhelming, almost, and he could not pull apart what was his worry -- for the woman he had only begun to learn about, really -- or Geralt's.

The less words, or time spent not looking for her, the better. He didn't need to ask what Geralt was feeling. He knows well now. In as few words as possible, he tells Geralt only that he's on his way, that he has a tracking spell in mind, to meet at her cottage. It's not far from his own, and in this moment it's a blessing. Jaskier grabs a tome from his study desk, his bag, and runs off to her cottage. If he's not fast enough, Geralt will leave without him.

He can't let that happen. Not after that successful full moon. The Coven warned about strong emotions and Monsters --

When he does see Geralt, it's clear that thought wasn't so unkind as it was truthful; it's impossible to miss the dark claws on the tips of his fingers as he offers a wineglass.]

I believe so. I've never tried this before, so just -- I know it isn't fair, but be patient with me, please? [He plants the wineglass on the ground, kneeling beside it with the tome open on his leg. His head is racing, and he can feel Geralt like a cloud full of lightning roiling just behind him. He's only attempted this spell once or twice in between of his actual studies, and Jaskier can only assume it won't be pinpoint accuracy. He builds magic in his fingertips, the nails beginning to glow. Whether it's from having Geralt so close, or from a lack to do for his magic, it comes to his call easily.

He knows it better now, with months sharing his body. The magic. What it feels like when he uses it, how to pull at it. How to mold it into something specific, like clay, instead of let it wild and loose to hope it did what he wanted.

It was hard to describe. A ping. A pull? A pull towards the center of the city, north.] I feel her. I think. [He doesn't add that means she must be alive. (Right?)] North. Towards... shit. [He holds his head, pushing the magic to lock tighter. The city is enormous.] The Coven? We can check there, find help if she's not there.

[gynvael]

[ On the surface, Geralt looks like he's waiting for something of little importance, one foot up against the wall where he's been leaning. But his eyes are fixed on Jaskier. The lines of his shoulders are tense.

He's not patient. Not right now. He also knows rushing will just make Jaskier nervous and fuck up his spell. So Geralt keeps his mouth shut. Doesn't hurry him like he wants to. Instead, he's shifting between the street and the magic gathering at the bard's fingertips. As if she'll appear from the crowd, nothing the matter at all, and ask him what the fuck the two of them are doing with her wineglass.

Wishful thinking. He's not one for those, usually.

His expression changes the second Jaskier names the Coven. The infirmary is there. If something's wrong and she's there --

As stubborn as she is, Geralt had trusted she was working it out with her familiar. As far as he'd heard, they were a viable solution. But the two of them are not...usual cases. He suspects that's why he went feral so easily, and why Yennefer is struggling more with her magic than she's been letting on. Maybe he'd been too fucking avoidant about it, not wanting to press and start another fight. Or to accuse her of something he'd regret down the line.

He leaves without a word. Jaskier will follow, he knows. With his mind on Yennefer, he's suddenly glad to have the bard with him: he can feel the pull of the change, rising to the surface. But it never breaks through, manifesting only in the smallest changes.

What he might find at the Coven, Geralt tries to put out of his mind. It won't help, fixating on what-ifs. When he gets there, he'll know. ]

♞ closed: event

[gynvael]

(( DORCHACHT; 09/25 ))

♞ caster

[gynvael]

[ Although Geralt doesn't intend to spend all of the days at the celebrations, he ends up doing so by virtue of the celebrations being everywhere. He narrowly avoids being pulled on stage by a group of actors in favour of letting some children threaten him with sticks. It seems preferable.

Since Jaskier is determined to stay throughout the week, Geralt winds up here to the last day. It's not bad. A bit much, as most festivals are. He's not sure how he feels about the gratitude sent his way for something he hadn't even been involved in. At least no Dorchacht citizen pulls him aside for actually recognizing him from the past -- something he'd been mildly concerned might happen.

As the sun sinks along the horizon, Geralt finds himself a drink and leans back against a roughly sanded wood pillar, taking up his past time of people watching in silence. Or that's the plan. He's waylaid by a cheerful woman who's had more than a few glasses of wine, insistently pushing another glass into his hands despite him clearly already having one. What --

So now he has two. He sighs, resigned, and decides to pass it off to the nearest figure. ] Thirsty?

[futhark]

[ Seeing the city once so dark and oppressed, rejoicing on the streets is an incredible sight. It's been a year, a whole damn year. It puts things in a strange perspective. How much can be achieved if everyone give a push— not the work of one man but of a whole city.

Cú has been there, both when the first Dream dragged them into the reality of this place, as well as when the first diplomatic visit started. "Diplomatic". He was here when the revolution started, and when after months of silence the city opened it's door again, with changed rules and changed rulers.

He could not join in the celebration. For what is a better reason to be joyful and merry, as they say? So when someone offers him a drink, he turns around, gestures widely. ]

That's generous, friend— of course! [ And he pauses, briefly when his eyes notice who spoke to him. Right. Waver mentioned that— Waver mentioned Geralt. But this one is different, as if from a different time. Which ironically, isn't a phenomenon unknown to him. There are two different Cú's in the city already, after all, Caster and Berserker.

He covers that brief pause with a smile as he takes the drink. A slightly teasing tone to his voice as he continues with a question ] Are the drinks here not to your liking? Or do you simply prefer a company to drink with?

♞ rude

[gynvael]

[ Usually, he tries to steer clear as much as he can when it comes to being caught in the midst of a battle. It's not what he's trained for nor cares for, fighting desperate men; he hunts monsters, first and foremost. He isn't a soldier.

But he's not a stranger to the sight, either. And he knows, beyond the enemies marching through, that the stampede of panic is an equal danger, as people try to flee the city.

He skirts the center of town. The raised dead fall easily enough to his sword, but he can hear the shrieks of the horses and their riders. He'd fought them once; he's not looking forward to it again. And he sure as hell doesn't want Jaskier or Yennefer running into them. Where are they, anyway?

He's moving around a burning house, ashen timber collapsing, when a flaming beam falls in his path. His sudden step backwards to avoid it means he's already off balance when a rotted corpse-like hand grasps his leg and yanks with more force than any dead has a right to.

He hits the ground. Ugh. Fuck. He stretches for his sword, kicking out to shake the creature off. ]

♞ yennefer (+ jaskier)

[gynvael]

[ When he makes his way through the bloodied streets, it's for a specific purpose: that is, he can't find where the fuck either Jaskier or Yennefer are. At least Jaskier, he knows is...safe. For now. He can sense an edge of fear, but not anything that would suggest his bonded is in danger.

Yennefer is another matter. Now that they're no longer linked by the wish. After what happened less than two weeks ago, he's not leaving a damn thing up to chance.

Normally, it might be enough to follow the magic in the air, but there are witches fighting all over the streets. He can't pick out one spell from the next. Bodies fall at his feet; he stops to help one stumbling woman with curling ram horns to a group of Coven witches. But for the most part, he's only pushing through the chaos. It's fucking impossible; a needle in a haystack.

In the end, he ducks into a nearby building, sword still in his hand as he takes a chance, hoping at least one of them won't be too distracted not to look at their watch. Slim chance. He sends it out, anyway. ]

Where?