farsickness | solstice

One could say Geralt was a bit oblivious when eyes were on him, though in truth, it was simply the fact that he was used to it. Back in his world, people always looked. They always gawked. They always hissed and spat and threw things at him, too, and now that he was here, it wasn't a realization he had yet to make that none of that was actually happening here.

He hadn't been there very long, but it had been long enough that the cup of ale in his hand was half gone. The sudden appearance of someone didn't seem to phase him much either. Though before he looks to his side to actually see the woman who had joined him, he assumes it to be another young man that enjoyed pestering him about, well, everything.

But the sound of her voice pulls his attention to her right away and he grunts softly. "I don't use it on dragons," he replies, slowly turning amber eyes towards her. "They aren't the monsters where I'm from."

He regards her a moment. She's new.

"But I take it they are where you're from."

There are number of men in this world that were serious, near to being grim. It always stoked a measure of amusement in her, stirring the urge to tease and joke (not that her sarcasm was ever far.) The way he glanced over at her showed he was another of those men, but at least not wolfish enough to bite her head off.

"The dragons have returned to Tamriel." She said, reaching behind her to touch her bow, always carried with her. "Getting close to them isn't wise, so a sword is useless. Unless you don't mind fire or ice breath." It wasn't how she operated. Too many soldiers had been torn apart by the creatures, she wasn't in a hurry to get close. "Stealth is better and arrows have a greater chance of penetrating their scales."

She pushed back her hood, letting the fire highlight her features better, to at least show she was no real threat to him. Even if her wit might be. "What beasts does silver effect?"

No, not wolfish enough to bite her head off, though not many women usually open up a conversation about his silver sword. Anyone that does is normally looking to steal it or use it as a good segue into breaking into the real reason they came over to talk to him.

Luckily for her, Geralt isn't showing her the usual demeanour he would for most people. He's in a decent mood, despite the seemingly permanent scowl on his face.

He nods, agreeing with her, more or less, about stealth. The talk of dragons brings back his last experience and, of course, Borch.

"Monsters," he says the word again. "Ugly ones. With really bad breath."

"The other reason to use stealth. They always have bad breath." Her gaze moved from the fire to him, the shadow of a grin curling at her lips. "There is nothing quite like a draugar in a musty tomb or a vampire backing you into a corner. If I can pick them off quickly, there is less to smell later." Bragging? Maybe, but he was a monster hunter as well, bragging was part of the territory. All men (and women) who used a sword for profit relived the battles by singing their own praises at a fireside.

He wasn't wrong exactly. She had chosen his sword as a means to break the ice, rather clumsily. He hadn't chased her off yet, but he was still taciturn. It might off put others, but someone like this brought back fonder memories that she wouldn't let go.

So Geralt got a companion out of it, whether he wanted one or not.

His medallion was similar to the ring on her finger, both wolf heads. Perhaps that helped give her that sense of familiarity and longing, either way, it eased any lingering concerns she might have of bothering him. "What does your medallion represent?"

His lips twitch in amusement. It isn't often that he can find the company of someone who knows the downsides to such a dirty job as monster slaying. Even if she doesn't do it for the coin, she knows and he can't help but echo the words along with her, "Less to smell later."

Geralt huffs out a low grunt of amusement, glancing her way before focusing back onto the dancing flames and the burning embers beneath.

"Mostly, it's a symbol of the profession that I do, while the wolf represents the school that I trained at. They call us Witchers." He gestures to her ring. "What does yours represent?"

Ah, but she often did do it for the coin, but more for her own restless energy. Both were tantalizing reasons to live this sort of life, though she doubted there was ever going to be any other option, even if she hadn't made the mistakes she did in her life.

"Witchers?" That meant nothing to her. "I have heard of mages and wizards, but not Witchers. Or do you hunt witches?" Trained at a school though, that wasn't much different from the Mage's College, though there was no symbol for them.

She twisted the ring absentmindedly, her gaze drifting off into the distance. "Someone I cared for who is gone." She smirked before letting her hands fall in her lap. "He was a werewolf. The symbolism isn't exactly original."

He sounds a deep note and shakes his head, before taking another drink and listening further. "You cared about a werewolf? Is that the reason he's gone?"

Geralt hunted his share of werewolves in the past, witches, too. They all fell under the same umbrella, only the definition of 'monster' also seemed to evolve to include humans. It wasn't something he saw until the weeks preceding his arrival there.

It gets him thinking about Yennefer briefly before he forces her out and focuses back on the woman beside him again.

"No, being a werewolf kept him alive long enough to take down a few of the soldiers that were sent to kill him." There is bitterness in her voice. It didn't choke her as it had the moment Arnbjorn died, but the wound would never heal. "He died because of a bad faith deal and jealousy." Some might say she was partly to blame but she would never accept that, not when Astrid accepted her role instead.

"Monsters are a bit more complicated to define. A werewolf might kill people, but it doesn't mean he's evil. Same for a vampire or a mage." Same for her really. "But I haven't had enough to drink to have a full debate on morality. That seems like sn over dinner conversation."

A smile appeared, shutting the door on the darker memories. "I wear the ring for him and so I remember who I was once."

It seems they share the same dislike for soldiers and that only further interests him about her story. Geralt also knows that digging any deeper was something he wouldn't do out of respect. But also because he wasn't keen on sharing stories about people he cares about. That list was short. Very short.

Still, he can't help but be curious. Their worlds seem to have some similarities that go beyond monsters and soldiers. It would be interesting to learn more as far as that goes.

"A memento then," he assumes. "You know this place can bring in anyone - even someone who might be dead."

She didn't mind digging, not with someone who might understand. The list of those that she could connect with were small. Those who faced a world similar to her own, that lived a life as she did might understand. Actions and decisions were not dictated completely by morality or coin, often interchanging. Such a life as well meant that people came in and out of it, sometimes sooner and more brutally than you might want.

She wasn't worn down from it as much as she had been in the past. The subject wasn't something she felt the need to avoid or pretend didn't hurt her. Kynareth had managed to ease her heart and the Grey Beards had done the rest.

Her smiled was welcoming, inviting more of a conversation with them, and certainly wanting something more than small talk. She regarded the ring. "I know. But that's..." her thumb twirled the ring roughly, "it's never going to be the same. They can bring the person here, but you can't really go back to how it was."

Geralt can't help but realize how much truth there was to that. He'd been wondering what would happen if Yennefer came in and what would become of that last wish that he made. Would it resume with them both being in the same place? Those kinds of questions were pointless to think about.

"No, you can't," Geralt agrees, feeling the weight behind that. He may still be him, but he's beginning to adapt himself to this place and learn about the way of life for others who have been brought here. "And maybe that's for good reason."

He downs the rest of his drink and glances into the cup.

"There's.. someone from my world that I wouldn't care to see here or maybe it's that she wouldn't want to see me."

Yeah, it's definitely the latter part of that sentence.

"Did you part badly?" He understood at least. Most seemed eager to wish for family or friends, but that wasn't her way. Those that she cared for were settled in some fashion. Bringing them here would disrupt that and frighten them. She could adapt to a place like that, a bit used to some sort of shipwrecked entrance. Hearing another say the same though eased her mind.

"Everything moves forward," she added, agreeing with his sentiment. "There was a tree in my world, the Gildergreen. It was very beautiful and sacred. It stood in Whiterun for years, a symbol to the followers of Kynareth. Over the years though, it slowly decayed and wilted.

There was a choice in how to save the tree. To force it back to its original beauty, you would have to assault an elder tree and drain its sap, disturbing the peace of the grow. Or you could appeal to the tree, let the old Gildergreen die and let a sapling take its place. It would mean relinquishing what was for an uncertain end, but the beauty that created the original would at least remain."

She finished the last of her cup, setting down by her feet. "That's a hard lesson to learn, even in metaphors."

Did they part badly? Geralt can't help but laugh and after he's done shaking his head he looks to the side at the woman he still does not the name of listens to her story. At first, to Geralt, it's the type of story that he has always resented. Yet, her narrative sparks a colourful image in his mind and for a brief moment, he can see that tree and in all its beauty.

"Sounds like it," he shifts, preparing to stand. "And to answer your question, yes, we did part badly."

Geralt gets to his feet and pauses in a silent invitation for her to join him. When they set out towards the inn, he decides to share a little of that story.

"Her name is Yennefer and we first crossed paths while I searching for someone to help my friend who'd been cursed by a djinn," he tells her with a scowl. Stupid bard. "We all thought it had been him that had been granted the wishes and she wanted to force him to make his final wish so she could capture it for herself."

Why was he even telling her this? The end of the story would make him look foolish and ridiculous, so he stops and shrugs.

"We couldn't seem to stop crossing paths after that. Even if we were on separate journey's."

He's patient in a way she didn't expect, but that could easily come from his time as a hunter. How often did he have to crouch in the woods or mud, waiting for some beast? A meandering story might be a bit more pleasant than a cold night, waiting for something to rise up in the darkness. After a few too many cups, she was waxing philosophical, but he didn't take the opportunity to poke fun. She had to appreciate that.

The silent invitation was accepted and she fell into step beside him, feeling the breeze billow under her cloak.

She's able to gather enough information to determine what a djinn was at least capable of from the story. "Did she finally capture it?" There was a part missing, an ending of some kind that he was leaving out.

Tipsy as she was, she could guess why their paths crossed. "It sounds as if you were fated, either by magic or gods."

It was better than listening to Jaskier for endless hours as they moved from place to place. She was also far easier on the eyes, but even thinking it he's sure he'd hurt the bard's feelings, wherever he was. As much as Geralt complained or saw him as a pain in the ass, he missed Jaskier's company.

"No," he answers. "Capturing it wasn't as easy as she thought it to be. I made my last wish and our fates were bound together."

By magic, yes, but he was the one that created the spell, in a matter of speaking. And he did it against her will.

Hence, parting badly.

Ah. A bad parting was understandable then. Despite her better instincts, she murmured, "You will have plenty of chances to make it up to her, at least." Her arms were starting to go numb beneath her dress. This wasn't exactly the Tamriel tundra, but it was still cold enough to displease her Breton blood. She drew a bit closer to him, seeking any heat he might give off. "Do djinn play tricks with the wishes?"

It would be like a Daedric Prince and she had seen first hand how certain wishes could be twisted for someone else's amusement.

"There is a chance that the magic isn't so strong that she would actually be brought here. If something can pull you between worlds, it might overpower a regular djinn. So in a way, the wish is broken?"

He wasn't so sure. She had made it pretty clear that she didn't want to see him again and Geralt couldn't really blame her. Still, did that mean he wants her there? No, because it was better for them both.

Glancing down at her as they began to walk, he could see her draw closer and without asking or even saying anything after, he slips off his woollen cloak and drapes it on her shoulders. He might be brusque and stand-offish to most, but he wasn't one to let a woman freeze.

"No, in fact, it's the humans who tend to take advantage of them. They are elementals, capable of great things. People will capture many and harness their powers for their own gain.

She gave a smile of gratitude, pulling his cloak tight against her. "I was once shipwrecked off the northern coast and spent a cold night swimming to shore and hiking to a nearby village. Since, I have a deep fear of the frost." The Nords were stronger than her in that way, but they were made for the cold, she was not.

"Truly? I would have thought because they hold such power, they would use it for amusement." So it must be on how they phrase the wish? "I have never seen a djiin before. The closest Tamriel has to wish granters is the Daedra."

And they were the ones who preferred to be cruel.

solstice

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