middaeg | you'll stay frozen in time ( open )

Entry tags:

you'll stay frozen in time ( open )

Who: Geralt &

you

!
When: this month!
Where: various places!
What: Some open prompts and I'm as always happy to do specific starters/let you write one, just shoot me a pm. He's not going to the masquerade because he sucks. & I'm cool with both prose and action!
Warnings: some violence, others tba as needed.

quest - out of the city (ota!)
[ Getting out of the city's walls feels, unsurprisingly, less claustrophobic. Aefenglom has been nothing short of miraculous with hospitality for mirrorbound, but as the weeks press on, Geralt feels more and more agitated with being there. And not just because of the worsening magic buildup in his system; being a life-long nomad with only brief periods of formal residency dotted throughout the decades means this is a hell of an adjustment.

Useless in many practical domestic things, Geralt makes up for it in being an excellent fighter. When they tell him that magic is potentially dangerous out here, he thinks Thank fuck, even though that's not going to help his unbonded predicament. Oh well. He's happy to get into the thick of it, whether it's against infected creatures creeping up to the edges of the outer settlements, sparring, or training. ]

during the masquerade (limit 1 person please, preference for new cr!)
Parties are the fucking worst, especially formal ones that have dress codes, and Geralt's taken far more drastic measures in the past to get out of them than simply not being available. He's left his watch at the house and avoided all questions that sounded like they were leading to invites, deeply grudging about his avoidance. It eats at him. Sure, he hates them to begin with, but the thought just reminds him of Yennefer, drilling the point of her absence (here, and at home) into him like a splinter he can't dislodge.

He picks a bar he's never been to before, one whose name he hasn't seen bandied about as employing any familiar faces, and minds his own business. And that should be that, a quiet evening away from nagging chatter and free from the headaches that crop up with increasing frequency - until another patron starts in. Aren't you one of them? Shouldn't you be at that fancy party the Coven put up? Too good for even that? You should all be put outside the wall, I wonder how Morgana would treat the mirrorbound--

Geralt has the man's head on the bartop, nose down, crunched up and bloody, before he really realizes what he's doing. He feels calmer than he should, but shutting up jackasses in taverns is pretty routine for a witcher. It's only when he hauls the man back and slams him down again that the horrified scream of someone else nearby really registers, and he steps away. Which is when another patron punches him in the back of the head. Gonna be one of those nights.

sleepless // later in the month (limit 2 people plz)
[ It's always at night when he runs out of shit to do that the pressure gets worse. He's been using magic more often, working on projects that require it when he can, and that's probably relieved some - but overload is still creeping inexorably closer, and he feels it in every atom. Restlessness to the extreme and irritation, he finds himself biting back his shortening temper more times than he can count. For someone with a limited ability to even experience emotion in the first place, it's particularly disorienting.

Cold rain comes down on and off, but Geralt's out walking anyway; there's no hope of escaping to the other side of the wall this late at night, but maybe that's for the best. Sometimes he finds himself in a mood where just leaving and going to find whatever horrible end in the Wilde sounds appealing. It'd certainly be safer than blowing himself to gooey pieces somewhere populated.

Instead he walks aimlessly, avoiding the Coven stronghold (as if some witch will leap out of the shadows and drag him away to be bonded to a stranger, right), only once playing a lackluster superhero and punching a would-be mugger in the face. It's a dull affair. Criminals in a walled city with a plague outside can't be that bright. Where are you gonna fucking go, dude.

He walks along the river until he finds a quieter stretch and hops over the barricade, opting instead to trek muddy, rocky outcroppings beneath bridges, powering up rocks and chucking them into the water, trying not to fucking explode. Not thinking about anything that might crawl out of the darkness. ]

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[ When the cue is given for their exit to be made, Trevor glances around at the mess that's been made and just... stares. ]

Shit.

[ It's muttered under his breath, hand coming to run along the back of his neck and he finds himself sighing then at the fact that he's gotten himself into a bar fight here in this world. Sure, he's changing into a fucking monster himself but bar fights? No, that doesn't change. Of course it fucking doesn't.

He wraps his whip up, the sound of metal clinking against itself as boots then loudly scuff themselves against the flooring of the bar and he nearly stumbles as he makes a quick spin and grabs a bottle of whatever ale was left out on the table. A lazy salute, he follows off after Geralt. ]

I'd say I'm sorry for the mess, but you all started it.

[ He mutters that to those left at the bar as he leaves and comes up alongside the Witcher. ]

Guess you're having a bad night, too, huh?

[ Geralt is heading out the door, down the street, without consideration for anyone else-- and then a question's post to him and his gait falters a little. He looks over his shoulder, odd, inhuman eyes flickering like an animal's.

He's a little glassy, but it settles. Mostly. ]

Guess so, [ is rough. He seems like the type who might have benefited from knocking back a few cocktails, maybe it'd have taken some of that rusted edge off. (Or maybe it'd have made him worse.)

He starts walking again, not with any effort to lose the other man, but because he doesn't particularly want to be right here when the guards show up. Which probably won't be too long from now. He swerves into an alley, intent on hopping over a wall at the end. ]

[ This isn't going to be another case of his attracting the moody bastard types, is it? Does he have a sign on him or scent about him that just gets him into these types of so-called situations and "friendships" with others? Because it's beginning to sure as hell feel like it. ]

Might have something that could fix that for you.

[ To which he shakes the bottle of ale he'd snatched off the table before dipping out and... well... following along?? Why? He hasn't a fucking clue but here they are. ]

You know, I don't blame you for clocking that guy back there. Sometimes an asshole deserves it.

[ Well, most times they do. But you know, violence doesn't solve everything and all that sort of shit Geralt's probably heard before, too. ]

[ Geralt naturally leans towards moody bastard, correct, but Trevor's really hit the lottery with him tonight, the witcher feeling especially like a boiling tar pit. A century-old cranky baby on the verge of exploding into magical goo. ]

No thanks, [ he says, about the alcohol. His constitution would purge it out of his system before he felt a buzz even if he chugged the whole bottle, and he'd feel bad wasting it. But of course, he doesn't sound considerate, he just sounds like a jackass. He keeps walking.

Of course, cue an unbeknownst echo, ]

Most times.

[ WELL ACTUALLY violence solves a lot, in Geralt's opinion. He quite specifically bails out of all situations that violence can't solve, leaving that to other, better people. He gets to the wall and glances over his shoulder. ]

You gonna hang around and get arrested?

[ Suit yourself. More for him to enjoy while it's still his preferred drink but he'll hang onto it in case the stranger decides to change his mind. Securing the bottle to his belt, he rubs a hand along the side of his neck and glances off to the side at that question. Yeah, they sort of... have that for a possibility, don't they? ]

Not looking to, no.

[ He'd rather NOT find out what the jails are like here.

And so he takes the Morning Star off his belt and twirls the chain whip around a couple times before he lassos it around the nearest thing he can find to use and gives a steady tug on it to ensure it's secure. ]

Need a hand over?

[ Geralt is already hopping over, a vertical movement and finding foot and hand-holds on the bumpy surface. More than a human could do, but still lacking in any graceful floating. He hauls himself up over the top. ]

I've heard of swords compensating, [ he grunts as he swings one leg over to the other side, ] but that's a new one.

[ Why do you keep flailing that thing around, man, you're gonna take someone's eye out. That Geralt frequently gets asked if he's got two dicks because of the equipment he normally carries is a moot point, as he, at present, has no swords with him. Setting up a good later-laugh at his own expense. ]

[ Well fine then. He'll just whip himself over. So there.

He loosens the whip some to both hoist and throw himself over with a few quick steps of fancy footwork and perhaps a bit of added extra strength from these stupid monster changes happening to him but he supposes they're ok in this one instance here. Maybe. ]

It's for killing vampire bastards among other things.

[ He snaps then with a grunt of his own as he taps down once he's flipped over the wall, cracking the Morning Star whip back to his side which he then begins to wrap up. ]

Not here before you start freaking out on me. Just the family profession where I'm from.

Vampire bastards, huh.

[ That sounds personal. Geralt doesn't know enough about family obligations or cultures of expectation to be able to wonder about personifying duty, though, so he just absently wonders if it's a grudge. ]

Some people wouldn't mind if you were doing it here. Maybe you missed that.

[ Dorchacht. Or the revolting sentiments that followed them back to Aefenglom. Geralt drops down on the other side of the wall and begins walking, only leaving behind one sizzling footprint. (O jeez.) ]

[ Why not a bit of both? Well, actually it'd be easier to say any grudges or resentments fall more with the Church than vampires and monsters. That's not as personal in some way. Just how it is. ]

You mean the infected ones or whatever? Heard about that, I think.

[ He figures that's what he's referring to and ok, maybe he should look into that a bit more. But it's just been a real shitty month or so with finding out you're turning into a fucking monster so he's been a bit distracted there.

Following after Geralt once his whip is wrapped up, he comes to blink in surprise at that sizzling footprint and glances up to the back of the man's head with a slight awkward stare off to the side. ]

Right, so. Either you got stabbed in the foot by a hot poker back there or that's not really supposed to happen with the whole fiery footprint thing.

[ Geralt gives him an odd look. Wondering, maybe, if this guy got here last night, or if he's playing dumb on purpose. Would a monster hunter stay ignorant of anti-monster sentiment on purpose, or is he trying to get Geralt to say something incriminating? He'd killed an awful lot of people in Dorchacht, and hasn't always been quiet about advocating for putting slavers heads on spikes, here.

But his thought process figuratively burns up. What does his accidental companion smell like? Person? Corpse? Hard to tell with the magic overloading his system. ]

Maybe I'm a fire elemental, [ he deadpans. ]

[ Maybe it's a joke?? Or maybe he's trying to figure out his buddy here. Either way, Trevor follows along, tilting his head from side to side as he gives Geralt a once over from behind. No, not checking the guy out. More like trying to see if he can spot anything he might recognize in the way of monster stuff.

But as he goes, he reaches up and snaps a twig from a branch... and proceeds to chew on the thing without even thinking about it. Not eating it, no. Just. Chewing on it. ]

Then I guess all I have to do is throw some dirt on you. Good thing there's plenty around.

[ That's said dryly, for the record. ]

But it's called showing mild concern since I did sort of save your ass back there.

[ DID YOU REALLY THOUGH, TREVOR??? ]

[ DID U

RLY THO TREVOR... well, maybe. Geralt could have slipped on a banana peel at any moment. It's not unheard of. One moment you're slaughtering entire Nilfgaardian regiments and the next you're tripping over a rock and getting kidnapped by elves who can't farm.

Dirt? What? Geralt shakes his head, still walking. ]

Go back to the ball, or whatever you came from.

[ Taverns are probably out, for Geralt, but he knows plenty of places on the outskirts and farmland where he won't be bothered. ]

[ The ball. Look at him making it sound all... fancy and stuff. Well, it sort of was? Weird masks and shit. At least the food and drinks were good? Not that he'd go again. Maybe. ]

And leave you out here to get yourself into whatever other trouble comes your way? Well I just couldn't live with myself if I did.

[ He could, honestly. Well, he'd feel a bit bad probably but if the guy really tries to ditch or make it known he doesn't want him around, he'll leave. Not like he isn't used to that sort of shit. ]

So what are you then? Witch or monster? Or is that too private of a thing to ask around here?

That's between you and your life, [ he says flatly, ] because I'm not interested in company. And it's not my fault you can't tell.

[ Geralt looks like a monster in the early stages of transformation: disfiguring scars, white hair, inhuman eyes that glint in low light like an animal's, slit pupils shifting strangely as he moves. And at home, he's considered one, in many respects. Too inhuman for humans, too human for the elder races, a witcher is a mutant and a freak, an outcast among outcasts, a novelty for sorceresses who want to fuck someone taboo and a tale to scare children with at night.

But here he's a witch, a higher social class. It leaves him disoriented and annoyed, most of the time. Literally, right now. ]

[ Geralt here reminds him so much of himself... and an asshole, too. But honestly. It's like talking to himself. You know, if he had white hair, a couple more scars, and was a bit older?? Christ, is this what he's bound to become if he keeps up being... himself? Sure seems like it. But that also means this guy probably has his fair share of bullshit he's been through and so Trevor can understand.

Doesn't mean he's not an asshole. But he gets it. ]

God you remind me of myself.

[ He mutters that to himself before he sighs and waves a hand, plucking the twig from between his teeth. ]

Alright, suit yourself. You're a hunter- monsters or some such from the looks of it, so it's not that I don't think you can take care of yourself.

[ And as he speaks, his tone is a lot more serious. Because Trevor can be, when he needs to be. ]

This world is just full of shit much like any other. Just... didn't want you to think I'm the sort to get involved and then... I don't know. Not give a shit.

[ Ugh, did he really just say that? God help him. ]

This world may be turning me into what I hunt but it doesn't mean I'm a monster myself.

[ So, he turns and gives a wave then, twig back between his teeth. ]

You do you, hunter.

[ A lot of hunters want to see themselves in a witcher, projecting some strange romance onto the solitude; he's run into a couple here, even, but it just makes him uncomfortable. He gives the other man a sharp, suspicious look. ]

You got in a bar fight. You didn't put in to adopt a clutch of war orphans.

[ Give it a rest, whippy!! Geralt, were he less of a dick or perhaps in his right mind (in which case he'd only be slightly less of a dick), might suggest he go talk to his brother, who is also a monster hunter in the process of turning into a monster. Maybe Trevor is also being fucked by cosmic irony. It'd be something to talk about, for a lot of people.

BUT NO, he just leaves, because he sucks. ]

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