(Closed) Octeuril Catch All

[mirshikar]

Who: Asura + Plotted CR
When: Octeuril
Where: Various locations in Aefenglom and the Wilde.
What: Quests, event threads, domestic undertakings, and general gallivanting about.
Warnings: None yet!

Feel free to drop me a line @ the October CR and Plotting Post if you're interested in threading and would like to work out details for a starter. DM works just as well, too! o9

Comments

[mirshikar]

Not nearly enough for my liking. [ —is Asura's easy confession, voiced precisely in the instant when he and Geralt tread past the outpost and through the big Bright Wall gate, finding themselves well and truly set on the path toward the Wilde's deep. ] So if you meant to ask me if I've got any damn clue about where to scout first, I'll be honest in saying that no, I'm flying blind here.

[ But there's no reward without a measure of risk, and Asura's nothing if not self-assured, carrying himself with air of bravado that's either been duly earned or is the by-product of something else. Like rank, authority, or the kind of crazy you need to possess in order to walk into the Wilde with the bare bones of some bold-faced plan despite knowing that the odds are against you. And that last thing? That brand of crazy? It seems to be a quality many of the Mirrorbound share, Geralt himself included, and because of it, Asura can't help but feel at home among their company.

Enjoying the conversation, he gesticulates through its rhythms with his hands, talons sharp and they cut and wisp through the open air— ] But if your true question was something else, say akin to whether or not I can throw down against something infected with the blight...?

I went hand-to-hand with some of those lost creatures, back in the Black City when we were tampering with the magic in the walls.

[ And gosh, the notion that someone else chose to class themselves at battle-Witch sure has got Asura all excited. ]

I wasn't alone and it was a hell of a fight, but it turned out all right in the end. The Cwyltid were released from their limbo, and we had a grand old time.

[ A f a n t a s t i c time, really, because it'd felt good to let loose and go in for the kill with the knowledge that it'd help ease some measure of suffering. Plus, it'd been forrrever since Asura had the chance to contest an opponent in earnest. ] So if you're combat-oriented in your application of magic, color me all kinds of intrigued.

You and me, we'll operate just fine together, I think.

[ Until the moment when actual magic happens, at least. Yo Geralt, you up for getting your dreams all twisted up into nightmares? ]

[niespodzianka]

[ Good to know Asura is at least decently capable - the Resistance members he worked with on his own excursions to Dorchacht's wall weren't keen on having anyone along who would hinder their progress or require independent babysitting. Assuming Asura isn't lying, of course, but he doesn't smell like he is.

Geralt opts not to match feat for feat. Fighting Cwyltid monsters is interchangeable with the work he does at home. Nothing remarkable, for a witcher. He just nods. Alright. ]

That's the hope. [ Wryly. Of operating together. He thinks it'll be fine, as well, but he'd rather not jinx it. Asura has the swagger of either a sovereign or a conman, and truth be told, he's got a worse history with the former. (He'd gone through so much to prove he was innocent of the kingslayer accusation when a fellow witcher assassinated Foltest, and then turned around and killed two others kings. Life comes at you fast.) ]

Hm. [ Hm. Which gate did they leave out of. Alright. He points out a few things. ] There's a river that way, a day's journey leads to an outpost that may or may not be manned by Wilders. There's teleportation through the caves a few clicks that direction. In my experience it's worse with creatures the further northeast you head.

[ VAGUE MAP DESCRIPTIONS don't make me open another tab rn it's fine. And ha ha get ready to rumble, Geralt's history with nightmares is wild. We'll leave that data out of meta for fun later. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Here, there's a whistle pitched low and long— ] So you know the Wilde like a Hunterheart knows the territory of their prey.

[ That prey being the Cwyltid which Geralt does not speak of, despite the invitation (and Asura being in the mood for a good story). What a shame.

Still: ] When I first laid eyes upon you, I knew that you were dangerous, but not in precisely what way. [ There's a stark difference, after all, between a person who dons armored garb out of a sense of duty and honor, and one who wears it simply because that's who they are. ] And to think, I could have been hunting with you this entire time instead of apprenticing in some magitech shop and expounding political rhetoric among our comrades.

[ His grin is wry, after that, and though Asura's sorely tempted to veer to the northeast in the name of testing his mettle against creatures which would be invariably merciless in combat—unlike sparring partners, bound (whether they liked it or not) by the notion of holding back—he knows that deviating even slightly from the plan set before them would compromise the whole objective. Because once the bearer of the Summer diadem is given to battle? There's no way they're coming back from it. ]

Let's follow the river and see if we can't find the source which it feeds from. [ —he decides, sallying forth in whatever direction it'd been that Geralt had gestured to. Trust is something easily given by Asura, for better or for worse. ] I wouldn't be surprised if it lead us to a decent hollow.

Rivers hold a power of their own, after all. Like the mirrors we walked through, I've often known them to be boundary-lines and portals. [ A laugh! ] Back home, I thought I had it bad after falling through the water and surfacing on a whole other continent.

At that time, at least it wasn't a foreign realm.

[ But it had been Florida, where Grandfather Thunder had been waiting to have a word with him. And that had been jarring enough, perhaps more so than Asura's own arrival in Aefenglom. ]

[niespodzianka]

I'm no fun to hunt with, [ Geralt says, and then, perhaps disappointingly, does not offer up any reason as to why, content to let that be folded into Asura's further dialogue. The witcher can spin a clumsy, blunt story when the mood strikes, but that mood rarely crops up outside lazy and comfortable settings. This is now A Job, and so he will remain professional.

They walk, and Geralt's not bothered by the direction. His time out in the Wilde has been calculated, not wanting to court the sickness but wanting to understand this world - and not wanting to get rusty. A strange balance; he's not used to being susceptible to diseases. ]

'Drowning' is plenty enough power for anything.

[ He's got jokes!! (Or not.)

Geralt's footfalls are quiet even on pitted, rocky earth, and the sense that he's listening to something beyond the both of them becomes more obvious the further away from the city limits they go. He is attentive and used to being in the wilderness - specifically, the wilderness full of dangers. Once they can hear the river he notes it, allows himself to get used to it, then filters it out. ]

What do you hope to find through dreaming?

[mirshikar]

[ 'No fun to hunt with', is it? Asura is unconvinced, largely because of the way Geralt navigates the path to the river; how the guy's inherent awareness is keen, seemingly split between what can be seen and what lurks just around the bend.

Like a Hunterheart, indeed. One who isn't as solitary as they would appear to be, because!: ] You must like hearing me talk, because that question's got a long-winded answer.

[ Though truth be told, that suits Asura just fine—he's got a natural proclivity toward being a Chatty Cathy. And maybe it helps, that his cadence is easy, perhaps suited for stories during treks like this one (don't worry, Geralt, Asura's got this covered). ]

Though maybe it's less of what I want to find and who I want to talk to. Since I arrived in this world, everything's been so damn quiet. [ And it had made him agitated, during those first couple of days in Aefenglom. More restless than usual. ] Mortals, they wouldn't know to miss it, but for my kind?

When you can't hear the gossip passed between the trees or the rumbles of the earth below foot letting you know that the path you tread is the correct one, it makes us feel ill at ease. Skittish, if you will. [ Though it's hard to imagine someone of Asura's bearing and countenance as skittish, isn't it? ] Right now, I should be able to hear Autumn as it cavorts through this forest, turning the foliage over to its colors and spreading its rot.

[ The shrug of Asura's shoulders is the implicit statement of and yet... ]

So if Aefenglom's Coven can't provide us with the answers that we seek, why we've been displaced and how the hell we get back to where we're supposed to be, I want to ping another audience. Humans aren't the only ones who can be communicated with through dreams.

[ Yes, what Asura's suggesting is communing with the world itself. No, he isn't joking, and does that fact make him sound crazier than he already innately is...? P r o b a b l y. But then, he sounds awful certain of himself, and there are stranger things afoot than once having established relationships with aspects of nature and the universe. ]

Of course, there's also the allure of catching Drummond herself in a dreamscape. [ His grin sharpens, after that statement, flashing something vicious. ] Kill her there, and she'll be comatose and as prone as the rest who fell during our first excursion to that foggy city.

[ But enough talk about that, because while languid and cool seems to be Asura's default setting, if he dwells upon Drummond and the heinous nature of her crimes for too long, the wrath festering inside of him will surface, untempered and unchecked. So...! He segues and segues hard, canting his head as he e y e s the other man, because what Asura knows of Professionalism are lessons instilled by his Wroth General—and that old Ogre? Well, he's realms away, where he can't tell Asura to behave in a manner befitting of the diadem. ]

My turn, to ask a question then. Where did you get your morbid as shit sense of humor, friend?

[niespodzianka]

You need an elf, [ Geralt mutters. ] Fuckers talk to the forest all day. I knew a particularly skilled woodland oracle, for a while. He hated hearing and seeing it so much he spent most of his waking hours drunk, because intoxication drowned out the visions.

[ And then Cedric died, which remains a bitter pill. Because died, of course, means was killed, like most elves are. Geralt can't even blame the suicidal impulse of most rebels, as he'd left that life behind and devoted himself to nothing more violent than navigating the forests.

Maybe the dryads in their shared dreams can speak to the forests. At the mention of Morgana and those in comas, Geralt makes a low noise. Yes, it's interesting, her ability. It's too bad he didn't kill more in the black city; it would have been handy to leave all her inner circle crippled. ]

Kaer Morhen, the Blue Mountains, Kaedwen.

[ .. A very specific answer, and as honest as it is useless. He's aware that most people brought to Aefenglom through the mirrors are from a place identified as 'Earth', full of countries and cities he's never heard of. No one's heard of his world, nor the world of the Aen Elle, or any of the others he's visited. ]

That's where the witcher School of the Wolf is. Or was. The keep is mostly ruins, now.

[mirshikar]

Kaer Morhen. [ —Asura echoes, though not out of familiarity. Rather, he is concerned only with committing the name of the place to memory. Foreign though it is, there's no telling where a Changeling could end up next; which realm they might accidentally fall into because of a single wrong turn taken in the space between mirrors. ] So it's either that whatever laid waste to the keep did a number on you too, or that going to Witcher school isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

[ Or maybe both, and m a n, that's rough. Sorry, my dude. Well actually, make that sorry-not-sorry—Asura can appreciate that gallows humor, because he knows well enough that there are some things so damn ghastly and grim that if you don't face them with wit, you'll be devoured by them whole.

Buuuuut, speaking of intoxication and drink !! You bet that Asura's got a whisky flask in that pack of his, and he fishes it out in the blink of an eye. Like that unnamed elf, he makes a habit of imbibing superhuman amounts of alcohol to take the edge (of wrath) off, but instead of partaking from the flask himself, he sees it pitched airborne, tossed to Geralt with an easy underhand throw. ]

Toss one back, and maybe you'll be a bit closer to your woodland oracle. [ Elves are only misnomered Changelings, back where Asura's from (Fairest Bright Ones and Muses, denizens of the Spring Court), but... he can imagine. Wonder at what they're like in the realm which Geralt hails from. ] By being acquainted with an elf, you're the closest thing to one that I've got.

[ Yeah? Yeah. That logic's sound enough. ]

[niespodzianka]

The only people who think witchering is a curse haven't grown out of their bitter teenage years, [ is easy-going, and does not sound like he's accusing the place - or profession - of having done a number on him. He's an authority on the subject, after all, having had a long stretch of bitter teenage years himself. (Decades.) The world itself turns everything hard, one way or another.

He catches the flask, and his nose twitches. ]

Sugar water. [ A critique, but one that sounds almost teasing. Can't handle a real drink, Asura? Geralt unscrews the cap, takes a mouthful, screws the cap back on and hands it to him. He'd have to chug a barrel to get his metabolism to notice, so it's largely wasted on him, but it'd be rude to decline, he figures. ]

So what are you? A prince? A god?

[mirshikar]

So that's your game, huh? [ Sniffing out the sugar-content in an unopened flask of alcohol like a Hunterheart the namesake for that Witcher school? Bizarre. Bizarre, but cool. ] Disarming first with insult, then going in for the kill with flattery.

[ E v e n if that bunch of blarney is kind of mainstream. Prince? Pssssh. God? The guy must not know what 'Asura' means. But that's okay, Geralt's got a lot of learning left to do, specifically where it comes to appreciating a good whisky.

Quite clearly amused, Asura drinks deep from the flask newly returned to him before answering: ] Well you've just gone and slayed yourself a Changeling. A fae dragon, to be precise.

This form is me— [ Well, not quite him. But it's what he's grown into since awakening in the wilds of Arcadia. He doesn't know (can't remember much of) anything else. ] —but human-shaped and travel-sized.

[ And easy on the eyes of mortals, or so Asura's come to find. ]

To be honest, though, you and your witchering [ yeah, Asura's using that as a verb now, too ] seem far more novel than all of that. Those bitter teenage years included.

[ An eyebrow raised, he asks the only question which can naturally follow that: ] ...were you still dressed head to toe in all black, back then?

[niespodzianka]

[ It's less flattering than it might seem, given his history with the lot, but changeling fae dragon sounds ... uh, well, the look Geralt gives Asura suggests that at least one of them means something very strange, where he's from. 'Changeling', Asura doesn't look like a blob of silvery good mimicking a person, 'fae', that word doesn't mean fucking anything outside garbage fairy tales, 'dragon', yeah right.

Though it is funny, that Geralt had been taken with him at first, back then on the docks. Because the first man to seduce him had turned out to be a man by only vague definition; a golden dragon borrowing a bipedal form to roam around among the humans and elder folk of the Continent. Villentretenmerth's true form is something far more impressive and mystical than anything he's seen in this world - and is, of course, the metric against which to judge all other dragons.

Or 'dragons'; he still think Asura's monstery features look an awful look like an incubus's. ]

Alright, [ is what he says eventually, the word slow and reluctant, still giving him a bit of squinty look. ] Just gonna assume we're experiencing a cultural difference, right now.

[ Asura is very pretty, after all, and he smells unique. Can't be a doppler. ]

Dark-colored armor is less expensive to maintain.

[ Award for the most boring answer in the world goes to.. ]

[mirshikar]

Maybe, on the dissonance. You haven't discounted anything else I've said so far, but... [ It could be that a line has to be drawn somewhere, even if it is between communing with the aspects of the forest and acknowledging the existence of an obscurity. Now try tacking on the word Witch to changeling-fae-dragon—congrats, now you know how Asura feels.] I've gotta say, the incredulity on your face? It's the most human expression I've seen you wear, by far.

[ And it reminds Asura of the Vallanzasca family head all those years ago, when Asura had confessed to the man that he were something other than human; that he could help the Vallanzasca business grow for the very small price of a single vow, never to be broken. That offer? Initially, it had been treated with all the respect of a farce until Asura had dropped his Mask, and the Vallanzasca patriarch glimpsed him for what he truly was.

Funny, how Asura's thoughts often seem to fall upon that family—how are they faring without his protection, now? With a shake of his head, he banishes the thought away, into the aether. ]

It's charming enough to make me forget that you just admitted to being a cheap date.

[ Because if Geralt's that practical about armor, it doesn't bode well for much else. Leave it to Asura, to spin even the most mundane of answers into gossip. It's a talent that all Fairest share, regardless of the kith they're associated with. ]

But maybe I'll get the chance to clear up the confusion in a dream— [ The sentiment cuts short, when Asura banks hard to the right, skidding down some muddy, foliage-covered slope into the depths of a forest hollow. Looks like he'd been paying attention to more than just the ebb and flow of their conversation, after all. He calls out then, from down below: ] —and relieve you of your doubts.

[ Though, to be honest, Asura's not overly concerned with reversing already fixed opinions. What he's more focused on, in the here and now, is how this hollow feels quiet, just like everywhere else. There's no feeling of warmth (of connection); no call to that which lies beyond the Wilde. ]

...but not here. This hollow's all wrong. [ No one gets lucky on their first time, huh? ]

[niespodzianka]

I'm not human.

[ FYI. Common misconception, and not a hill he'll die on, because to natural non-humans, he's close enough, and Geralt gets that. At the same time, humans are loathe to count him among their number - until they want something out of him. But even those moments have a quick expiry.

Not human may not be accurate, ultimately. He's just not. Not this or that or anything, not a person. Just a tool. And a plenty cheap date. Vodka and a bed and he won't even bitch much about the food.

Geralt doesn't move after him, nor does he startle. He watches, and then looks away, as if he's heard something in the other direction. But after a moment of silence he looks back at Asura. ]

If you say so.

[mirshikar]

Know you're not. [ Scanning for a way up, out of the hollow, Asura identifies a series of gnarled, coarse roots embedded deeply enough into the slope to serve as a ladder if he's nimble enough. They (along with a show of upper body strength) see him returned to the path above in short suit, his gold talons and scarlet attire muddied, but his devil-may-care countenance no worse for wear. ] Human, that is. Knew it from the day when I first met you.

My kind— [ Kind, he'll continue to say, because that's easier to manage than a whole slew of descriptors that most don't believe in. ] —our nourishment comes from human emotion. It flows off of most of the popular here in waves, but not off of you.

[ Which is Asura had told Geralt months ago, that'd he make a good catch. It's not every day that you happen across someone who effectively straddles the gap between human and and the mystifying preternatural, after all. ]

And not from Monsters. [ Any sort, whether they were native to this prison-realm or not. ] That's why I'm interested in you, Witcher.

[ With a flourish of wrist (a surprisingly elegant gesture), he motions out into the Wilde. ] You and whatever the hell you're listening to when you stare off into the distance like that.

[niespodzianka]

[ Feeding off emotion? Huh. Maybe his first impression wasn't that far off. Some kind of succubus. (Other people might think 'vampire', but vampires in his world don't drink blood to survive, they drink blood to get drunk, and engineered all the superstitions about vampires so that they could hide among the other races easier. It's a bad canon, don't get into it.) ]

That must suck, [ is his graceful contribution. Ugh, human emotions. Gross. Just eat snails, Asura.

And it's his last contribution for a while, because he just grunts something wordless at him - that's probably admonishment for being interested, look, buddy, nothing good comes of being curious about outsiders - because there's a Cwyld-creature out here stalking them. He manages to keep them away from it for a while, but eventually the beast is upon them, going from soundless to deafening in the span of a heartbeat, crashing through dead trees and damp earth.

Maybe it had been a naga, once, or a dragon that perished before a full transformation. It's nothing, now, just an empty shell of madness.

Presumably it goes quick, between the two of them, and Geralt insists they leave the corpse and move away immediately. Fuck getting infected, thanks. ]

You might have to just take your chances. [ Another hollow, or Geralt assumes so, watching the other man inspect yet another clearing. ] This is a dead world. Probably never gonna feel 'right'.

[mirshikar]

Taking chances is fine and all, but it propels the likelihood of the magic fucking up right through the roof. [ But despite giving voice to that naysayer's sentiment, the pack slung over Asura's shoulder is swift to meet with the forest floor below, and then? Asura's given to stretching (there's been a crick in his neck, since dispatching that Cwyld-beast, however smoothly that had gone) before employing some Witchy-woo to raise a barrier around the hollow.

Marking each of the cardinal directions with a rune to stand as ward, he pours magic into the four sigils in excess, giving life to the spell and ensuring that it stays charged (and so too burning off some of the magical backlog that's manifested as an itch beneath the skin, all because he's been loathe to embrace a Bond). ] Back in the city, I've got a friend on standby, reading to slip into the realm of dreaming upon receiving word that I found a suitable place, one that I liked.

[ Only j u s t visible to the eye, Asura's exercise in abjuration glints and glimmers like something tenuous and ethereal, translucent and therefore easy to pass through, but... upon inspection (and beneath a rap of his draconic's knuckles), Asura is pleased to find the barrier sturdy as an armored wall. ]

This isn't it. [ And since Geralt's already arrived at that conclusion as well, Asura will move on right quick: ] So I'm not going to ring them up, because I've got you instead.

[ To do a test-run of the magic with. And hey, at the very least, Asura's straightforward about the proposition (much like everything else). ]

Someone like you, someone like me... [ Two fools, out for a trek in the Wilde during misty Octeuril rains. ] We're meant to shoulder the risk.

[ Unless you're going to ollie out on him now, Geralt. ]

[niespodzianka]

[ The shell goes up, and Geralt has to wonder how the fuck anyone manages to get this good at magic so fast. Asura showed up around when he did, right? But he'd probably wonder the same thing at home; there was a reason he struggled to teach Ciri anything in that realm, even with his use of signs. It's impressive. Whether or not it'll hold - it sure seems like it will. Not even his overclocked senses can find an obvious weak spot.

He lets out a rough sigh. ]

Knew coming out with you was a dumb idea.

[ Because this is a dumb idea. But long-distance dreamwalking, 'nice' hollow or not, sounds like an even worse idea. What if something went wrong, and his friend was left incapacitated - all the way back in Aefenglom, with no one on hand? Fucking disaster. Better they risk it out here. If it backfires, at least no one else is in the blast radius. ]

What do you want to do? Exactly. I don't really dream on my own.

[mirshikar]

Yeah, you don't really seem like the type. [ —he hums in agreement, the notion of Geralt sleeping as soundly as a Gravewight easily conjuring a (less than) dramatic enactment in his mind's eye. But then, the guy's sleeping (and therefore dreaming) habits aren't exactly a roadblock for Asura, because each and every dream the Mirrorbound have been pulled into thus far have been constructs of another's hand. And the role of playing dream-architect? That's familiar territory for him, the ruthless hard-ass King of Summer who often flirted with the idea of putting the Court's mule squires and dust grunts through the rigors of training drills not only during their waking hours, but in the thick of of their dreams as well. ] I'll create a skeleton of a dreamscape and draw you in, how's that?

Your subconscious can fill in the blanks, and if it doesn't, well... [ Though Asura will most certainly be bored to tears, at least Geralt will be spared from sharing unwanted facets of himself in dream-land. Let too many secrets slip, and that Mysterious Air won't be so effective a draw anymore. ] Maybe it'll be easier on you, that way.

Just don't go walk around and say that I deceived you into being my accomplice. [ Because Asura's not that sort of fae, though others of his kind certainly are (and remain fond of binding mortals in fanciful pacts which are incapable of being fulfilled). Even the vow which Asura had elicited from the head of the Vallanzasca family had been bereft of frills (protect the Freehold as you would your own flesh and blood, for as long as you shall live). ] I didn't upsell or falsely advertise.

[ He heard that old-man exasperated sigh, Witcher. Guess that leaves Asura as the only one who's having a good time. ] All you've got to decide is how you want to slip into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

[ Whiiiiile Asura fashions a fallen bough of a tree (likely downed during one of Summer's last tumultuous storms, the season refusing to cede to Autumn without a fight) into a tool with which to mark the ground with a gross eyeball of a another rune, by far larger than the four powering the abjuration magic. ]

...there's a potion for that, in the pack. If you're not interested in employing a more creative solution. [ It's somewhere next to the whisky flask. ] Was planning on downing half of it, myself, to get into the right headspace for the magic, but circumstances change.

[ Like when, because of your too-sociable nature, you end up dragging someone else along right with you, well past the point of common sense in true Arcadian fashion. ]

[niespodzianka]

I don't need help falling asleep.

[ He can control his bodily functions well enough. It's a simple shift of mental pathing as soon as he slips into meditation, which is easy as breathing. Not that he's looking forward to this; at least the things he might worry about at home aren't present here, haven't been present in the shared dreams. They're like stepping into another dimension - not like real dreams, and not much like the dreams conjured up by the oneiromancer Corinne, who he worked with twice in recent days at home. Though he knows that a very powerful one might be able to do something similar. Avallac'h had been able to power her enough to link five people of varying races and show them the same memory.

Dreams cannot be faked, they'd said. Sure. Whatever. ]

Your shield will hold while you're out?

[ He doesn't fancy waking up while being eaten by an infected creature. ]

[mirshikar]

It'll last just fine for a few hours. [ Give or take. Personally, Asura isn't too fussed about it—he doesn't plan to be out for anywhere near that long. From what he's grasped of the divinatory arts here, in this realm, is that every spell (be it oneiromancy, peering into reflections of the past, or foretelling the looming shadow of the future) requires a tether. Something with which to draw the practitioner back to the present. And Asura? Of course he's got one. He locked it right in with both himself and the Witcher when he magicked the barrier together.

Spoilers: it's butterfly. Once a treasured companion from back home, Tink is now (more or less) the dainty familiar to Asura's rough-and-tumble Witch. And currently? Tink is leisurely occupying a low-hanging tree-branch overhead. ] If you're dissatisfied with that appraisal, I don't have a problem with sinking more magic into the runic wards which power it.

[ He's got too much magic, as it is. Expending a bit more will help, rather than harm. ]

It's in my best interests, after all, to keep you protected. [ Because it's sort of his edict, to protect all who would call themselves outsiders. But, quite naturally, he's not going to divulge as much. He chooses the path of easy banter and amusement instead: ] Might never hear the end of it from our mutual acquaintances, if word gets out that I lost you in the Wilde.

So don't you worry, I'll see your rugged I-don't-need-any-sleep-aids self back to the city, safe and sound. [ That isn't to say, however, that Asura doesn't anticipate any hiccups along the way. ] That's a promise. And my kind? We don't break them.

[ Long story short: Fate exacts mean as hell retribution on Oathbreakers. ]

[niespodzianka]

[ The way Asura barrels through everything, powerful and charismatic and with charms on full display, reminds him a little bit of walking the trebuchet ramparts with King Foltest. It's not a flattering comparison, and plenty doesn't match up, but there's something about the way he doesn't seem capable of showing any face besides a confident one. Geralt isn't sure if it's actually reassuring, because he can't tell if it's recklessness.

So: yes, he would like Asura to put more magic into the wards. Geralt will put every mental fail-safe he can into his own internal clock, to wake himself at a precise time and no later, just in case. Just because he isn't afraid doesn't mean he trusts.

He will prefer that Asura head to sleep first, do what he has to do. But if that's not the way the ritual goes, then he won't argue.

Either way, his own methods aren't as typical as laying down on a bedroll. Geralt kneels and sits back, spine straight, appearing curiously comfortable in a position that most would find uncomfortable. His hands rest on his thighs, and his breathing evens out. His heart, already beating four times as slow as a human's, slows just a little bit more. With his eyes closed, he slips into a meditative trance.

It's easy, from there, to push himself into real sleep. The witcher's head tips forward, his shoulders sag, and there he stays. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Well, at the very least, the Witcher's body will stay there, rooted on one side of the rune which Asura had engraved into the wet earth while the draconic King himself occupies the other—the mind, however, is a different story entirely.

When Geralt's consciousnesses blinks into awareness on the other end of the spell, he'll rise only to find himself in the depths of a tunnel. Behind the Witcher, the way is shut, but forward...? Forward's open, and with each and every step taken in the right direction, the walls of the enclosure shift in appearance, flickering into familiarities visible in the corner of the eye until Geralt makes his way out of the deep, and all those ghostly familiar things coalesce together and solidify into a setting which is very much of the Witcher's own design.

As Asura had said, after all, he planned to provide only the skeleton of the dreamscape, and he isn't one to misdeliver (or, to reiterate, falsely advertise). The thing about Asura is he's been on top of the food chain for so many lifetimes that almost nothing phases him. And maybe it's just a bit reckless (crazy) of him to have pursued the practice of oneiromancy with a near-stranger, but in many ways, it's not so very different from when Geralt decided to keep Asura company on the last night of Lùnasa. Sure, the stakes are a bit higher, and there's a whole lot of a difference between sharing a drink and sharing a dream, b u t the spirit of it is still the same. To Asura, anyway.

Speaking of Asura, his voice sounds from somewhere off to the right: ]

For someone who said they usually don't dream on their own, you managed all this [ and here, there's a wide gesture of his glittering and scaled arms, all encompassing ] without much prompting.

[ Whatever 'this' is, anyway. ]

[niespodzianka]

[ Surely, Geralt still has to dream, even if he doesn't remember it - but maybe not. He doesn't need sleep the way humans do, so maybe he doesn't sleep the way they do, either. It's not like the mages who made the first witchers did any testing on them after setting them off on their Paths, and leaving them to form their own strange, isolated culture.

This.

Of course, Geralt's sleeping mind takes them to Kaer Morhen, because in absence of anything else, it's sensible to go back to the start. The first place Geralt ever knew. Home. A crumbling castle built by an unknown people, older than the elves, maybe older than the vrans; at first glance it's impressive, but any small moment of inspection betrays how ruined it is.

The courtyard they stand in is larger than in reality; the outer wall surrounding the keep and the gate to main castle are stretched far back, making the lonely, inaccessible feeling of the dream all the more intense. The mountains that surround them are merely sketches against grey clouds, hiding their faces.

It is very, very cold.

Geralt watches Asura, feeling under water. He tries to speak, but as is common in lucid dreams, no sound comes out. Mm. Not used to it just yet. ]

[mirshikar]

[ A novel sensation, the cold. Though Asura is no stranger to alpine conditions (the Winter King has long since chosen to dwell in the farthest reaches of the snow-capped mountains which stand as border between the northern Italian provinces and the valleys beyond), they have never once taken effect upon his person. But in the scope of the Witcher's dream, the air bites the skin and benumbs the lungs like Asura isn't made of fire crystal; like his chest is no longer a furnace which consumes and burns.

Now that's something, isn't it? A testament to Geralt's own latent ability to impose corporeal touches upon a dream-memory, despite Asura being the one who gave life to the oneiromancy itself. It's wicked cool, even if Geralt hasn't yet found his voice or the whole of his bearings. And to Asura's credit, when the guy opens his mouth to speak only to have no sound come out, the draconic's immediate response is not "so no different from usual, huh?".

Instead: Asura reaches to clasp Geralt's shoulder with a taloned hand in an effort to root the guy to the dreamscape without employing any further magic because... something feels off. Amiss. Maybe it's just the inherent feeling of trespass that comes along with the territory of dream-walking through another's mind and memory. Maybe, it's more than that.

In any case— ] Never seen a person who embodies so much of a place.

[ Yeah, that would be you, Geralt. Handsome in construction, but weathered and aloof. ]

These ruins are the ones you mentioned before, yeah? The school of the wolf?

[niespodzianka]

[ Perhaps Geralt should have considered the fact that he hasn't burned off magic the way witches without a bond should; perhaps Geralt should have considered what usually happens in his dreams. Those thoughts have yet to catch up with him because-- why would they? This is Asura's show, his spell, and there's no reason to believe something that tethered him back home might have an impact here.

But it is very cold. And getting colder.

Oofwoofwords. Mlem?? Bleh. He might quip something about Asura having not seen his teacher, the real heart of the keep, now dead. Instead he just makes a face, trying to hook into the right plane of existence to speak properly. ]

Yes. [ He shakes his head, as if clearing fog. His jaw feels rusted; he rolls his shoulder and something cracks. ] Something like it. Too bad you can't see the view.

[ Because it's beautiful. If you like that sort of thing. ]

What do you need to do?

[ Geralt doesn't have a bad feeling, exactly, but an instinct tells him they should get to business without any dawdling over sightseeing. It's colder, and colder, and not in a way that feels like weather. It's unnatural. He drags in a breath that's all crystals in his lungs, letting it out like a cloud of smoke from a dragon. ]

[mirshikar]

Just me, when it's been the both of us together since you decided to be my escort out into the Wilde? [ It takes at least two to practice oneiromancy, after all. And more than that, Asura's interest in the other man remains keen, sharpened anew by whatever it is that Geralt's unconsciously woven into the framework of the dream—the power which drives the temperature lower and lower and turns each exhale of breath to pluming vapours. Whatever it may be, it most definitely disagrees with Asura's Summer constitution, but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try to see it fully actualized beyond bone-chilling cold. ] What we need to do is test some limits.

[ Because now that the Witcher's found his voice and rooted himself into the plane of the dream, it's time to shake things up; to bring a little more life to such a lonely and solemn place. ]

Sure, we made it here all right, but the bigger feat is shaping this dream's natural state into something else.

[ And knock out the first tier of the brand of oneiromancy which Asura is familiar with from home: dreamscaping. ]

Should be easy for you and a bit more difficult for me. [ Because the original architect knows the foundations best, what will hold and what will plunge such a beautiful and desolate place into further ruin and collapse. And Asura? In this scenario, he may as well be akin to a restoration artist. ] How about you try your hand at bringing up the temperature before the cold shocks us both back to waking? I'll see about redecorating the courtyard.

[ And lo: Asura saunters off (direction: somewhere over there), heading further out into the courtyard in examination of its broken stone pathways. As he walks, wildflowers and tall, reedy grasses crop up in his wake (as they would back in Asura's own realm, where the blossoms were affixed to his Mantle because yeah, Changelings are creatures straight from fairytales), unfurling from cracks within the limestone, but...! They won't last long without a fix for freezing. Are you working on that, Geralt? ]