gynvael | abraxas:: INBOX

[A little insulted he did not reply to Jaskier's fascinating tale of his newest scar.

However, the message he gets when he is sitting on the beach beside Nadine, watching the water, a bottle of wine between them, is one he does not expect.

His breath hitches.]

The owls... I did not even think to check.

Thank you, Geralt.

It will have good company with Hector's finch. Did I ever tell you he gave it to me when we first met in the Horizon? So oddly sweet for a necromancer.

[Seemingly, the messages will end there. Until later, when the sun has set, and he is packing up his lute on the beach to tuck in for the night.]

I miss them so much.

[ Geralt, almost, can sense that Jaskier's not finished his thought. He lets the message fade against the cliffside he is scaling. Does not respond until the sun has set and he's set up under the moon. It's a clear night—no signs of a dust storm gathering like he thought.

His chest is heavy. He stares at the stars above as Jaskier's script hangs in the night sky and slowly vanishes.

He searches for some words of comfort. They scrape against his mind and crumble. Maybe Jaskier will glimpse a few half-finished letters and words before a real message arrives. ]

What will you name it.

[Truthfully, Jaskier does not expect an answer. He simply... he finds value in saying the words, setting them out into the world to someone, anyone. Or, rather, someone who will understand.

This is not like losing a loved one to heart break. Not even to plague. Jaskier does not know what happened to him. He will never know.

(Please, let Rinwell be with her friends. Please. Let Hector have found others. And, selfishly, please do not let me be forgotten.)

Yet a response does come. The question makes him laugh out loud, and though the others question it, he can't really explain it. It is something between Geralt and himself.

Jaskier goes to the Ho rizon once they are safely back in their room to meet the newest addition to Bleobheris's branches. He adores the creature nearly instantly; he is sure Hector would've been enamored with it. And even though its hoot is a little unnerving, Jaskier hardly notices it is not like a normal owl at all. When he first visits to see its color, to determine its name, he lets it roost on his shoulder. He introduces it to the goldfinch. And as they familiarize, calling to each other, they take to the sky side by side.

He finds the name easily.]

Marjon.

[Bitter. For the memories the owl will bring. Bitter. Bitter, but sweet.]

It sounds a bit like your grunts.

[ It takes some time before Jaskier replies. Geralt doesn't question it. Doesn't worry about it. He knows Jaskier is with Ciri, the group of them. If something were to happen, they'd tell him.

He skirts a nest of sand scorpions. Makes camp. Sees the message in the smoke. ]

A rare compliment.

[ No name for his owl, of course. The only creature in his domain that bears a name is Roach. ]

Only you could take that as complimentary!

[And he leaves it there for a bit. A few lovely, relaxing days pass, and then Jaskier tells Geralt of something he must. Of the utmost importance.

Possibly the most impossible thing he's ever seen.]

Nadine's a wolf and wrestling Mog. I don't even know if the finest of poets could put into words what this scene makes a man feel. Though he could possibly start with affectionate confusion.

It had been just an idle thought that occurred to Nadine, while lying in bed and sorting through all the various thoughts that come in when her mind's unoccupied. She doesn't even know what made her think of it, but she'd remembered telling Geralt she'd show him a motorcycle one of these days.

And it returned to her again. So she'd sent Geralt a simple magical text - she isn't sure what else to call them - asking him to meet her in her domain, when he had some free time. And stressing it wasn't urgent, she just had something she think he'd like to show him.

Her own domain has shifted in season once more, spring in full bloom around the little 'town' that makes up her part of the Horizon. The little square in front of the church is a riot of flowers and blossoming trees. She's waiting for him on the church steps, in black jeans and knee-high boots and a black leather jacket over her plain gray t-shirt.

There's a motorcycle parked by the steps.

[ Considering Jaskier is one, with Julie; two, Jaskier; and three, on holiday, so to speak, Geralt has not quite taken this literally. As in, he assumes Jaskier is a few different shades of inebriated and is having especial difficulty not exaggerating. Even more than usual. ]

And have you taken your turn wrestling Mog?

The message he receives from Nadine arrives only a few days after he's left with Sam. They're still on the main roads, not far from the outpost. He waits until the afternoon, when the heat is more than he prefers to travel in, and sends a message back: he'll be there in an hour.

Nadine almost never reaches out to him to meet in the Horizon. Not especially since she's moved to Cadens. It has him curious.

He walks to where he remembers her small town is. Now and again, it occurs to him he could probably arrive, willingly, at another's place, but something about walking there feels more suited. The shops are the same, the play horses remain, but the snow is gone. Flowers spring along the paths and open gardens.

And in the midst of the bright blooms, that. He knows enough to recognize it as a vehicle, between the sleek metal and thick black wheels. Things he's glimpsed before, but never stopped to examine. Other than Dean's car.

He stops a foot away from the steps. Peers at the machine, then at Nadine. "That's new."

[To be fair, Geralt is not wrong that Jaskier is drinking, and has been progressively drinking even more as the vacation stretches on, but this is definitely literal. This time.

It has not even occurred to him that Geralt is unaware of Nadine's ability.]

As handsome as they look on you, I do not wish to be covered in scars.

How fares your desert so far? Hope you're making friends XOXO

[The last addition is from Julie, surely, and Jaskier has attached himself to the idea of an affectionate sign-off. For letters, even! How quaint.]

"That's what I wanted to show you."

Nadine stands when Geralt approaches. The oppressive feeling that's permeated her domain for so many months is finally gone, and she's glad of it. It's nothing she consciously controls, it just seems to flux with her own mood and state of mind. Which is considerably improved these days.

"Remember I tried to explain what a motorcycle was? This is a motorcycle. I've been thinking about it and I realized...I kind of missed having a motorcycle."

She approaches it and rests one hand on the front, eager to show it off to Geralt. She really thinks it's a machine he can appreciate.

[ Geralt once again attributes the random assortment of letters to Jaskier's state of being. (What...?)

Only ones with teeth and claws.

Edited 2022-05-30 20:56 (UTC)

He does recall. A horse, but with wheels and a motor is what she told him. She'd ridden it across the desert. The resemblance is there, he can admit. It does look rather like humans saw a horse and a car, and asked what could be done to meld the two things together.

"I rode in a car once." He runs his fingers curiously over the saddle. Seat? It's leather, unlike the rest of the machine's body. "Wasn't bad, but I can't say I'd enjoy travelling long inside a box."

He also dislikes trips in carriages and wagons. Given half the chance, Geralt will always prefer being under an open sky. This is, on other words, an appealing alternative. The spark of interest is visible in his eyes. Look—perhaps he can admit, he had liked the...joyride. In the Impala. The feeling of it, anyway. The fact of the matter is, nothing in his world can ever possibly move at that speed. It's entirely new to him. The car had been too confined, too different from anything he's seen, for him to ever consider using one himself. But the shape of the motorcycle is much more familiar.

"Motorbikes are a lot more fun than cars."

Nadine has no issue with cars, she's been riding in them or driving them her whole life. But she can understand someone like Geralt, with both his nature and the world he comes from, not being too inclined to them.

"These go just as fast, too. We can go for a ride, if you want. I'm still not great on a horse, but I do know what I'm doing with one of these."

And it would be nice to attach some new memories to the idea of zipping around on a motorcycle. To just ride without a destination, not going to something but just...going.

And it's the Horizon. They don't even need helmets.

Definitely your type, then.

[He sends a few more messages as he gets progressively drunker, most of them half-written lyrics and, of course, a customary:]

I love you, Geralt. Even if you come home from the desert stinking like a dog. Like -- like, oh! One of those Redanian hunting hounds that always look very dour, but occasionally you see the smallest shake of their tail.

Truthfully? He needn't be convinced much. He's already plenty curious about what it might be like. The Horizon affords an easier space to experiment—and for him to be less concerned about the fragility of the human body combined with a machine that sends the world into a blur.

(One day, he will learn about rollercoasters.)

Besides, Nadine seems eager. Lighter. Between their encounter with the snakes and this, there's a side of her he's only recently caught snatches of. Buried under the heavy weight of the world, perhaps, but it's there. He'd like to see more of it. They could certainly both use a distraction.

"All right." He steps around to the other side of the motorbike to join her. "Show me."

[ The increasingly less sober messages go largely ignored, until the last one. Geralt looks at it a long moment. It is not because Jaskier has declared he loves him. The bard does it often, at the smallest provocation. The time Geralt simply gave him a spare block of cheese, for example.

No. It's the other bit. Regarding his. Tail. Theoretical tail. ]

Jaskier.
The fuck are you on about.

Nadine has been doing better lately. Time is an amazing balm, and it's been over half of a year since certain influences were present in her life. Replaced with far more positive ones.

"Alright!"

Excited, Nadine pulls a pair of sport style dark glasses out of her jacket and puts them on, before offering a second - slightly larger - pair to Geralt.

"The speed can irritate the eyes if they're not protected. Usually people wear helmets with visors on them, but since we're not really in any actual danger of having an accident, we don't need to go that far." But physics do exist in Nadine's domain, and eye protection will make for a much more pleasant ride.

With a familiar ease, Nadine swings a leg over the bike and settles herself in the seat, hands on the handlebars.

"Just hop up behind me and hold on."

He studies the tinted eyeglasses. Instinct prefers he not darken his vision deliberately, but there's no danger here. He puts them on. Squints a little as he gets used to it. They don't obscure his sight near as much as they look like they would.

Once she's on, he follows. It's different, being the passenger. He's always been the rider on his horse. Can't recall the last time he wasn't. Or the last time he was fully conscious for it, at least. There was the day Jaskier dragged him onto a horse and rode back, after the portal spat him out in the middle of the desert.

The machine is hefty. Sitting on it alone, he can feel the strength of it. His feet automatically find where they should rest. Then he holds on.

"Ready."

It's a little bit weird, when Geralt climbs on behind her. Nadine's never done this with a passenger before. And that it's him...somehow that makes it even stranger.

But she puts that out of her mind and turns the key, and the bike begins to come to life, the lights flashing on with a small click. She squeezes the clutch until the engine rumbles to life. The seat beneath them shudders rhythmically as power flows into the machine.

"Here we go."

Up goes the kickstand, the choke is released, the throttle engaged. There's a moment for the bike to warm and then they're off with a roar of the engine, gaining speed rapidly as Nadine turns them neatly onto the empty streets of her little town.

[when the caravans arrive from their travels to drop off supplies from not-so-far-off lands, certain parcels get pulled away and taken to go through customs. they are not for businesses nor for sale, but for individuals. the fact that they are for summoned individuals raise an eyebrow.

and so, through customs it goes, opened, inspected, and then—when none of the items are deemed as questionable—they are repackaged and sent to their designated recipients.

this small package will sit forgotten, likely somewhere where geralt frequents a lot, until he returns from wherever it is he has left for. it is not like wanda knows about people's lives in the cities. inside, geralt will find a wooden comb with an engraving of a white wolf.

there is no letter explaining the contents of the parcel, but there is a single note. it is blank at first, until geralt holds it, and then swathes of scarlet magic will reveal writing, as if it were happening right in the moment by an invisible hand:

For your daughter. Be well.]

The thundering growl catches him off guard every time, even when he knows it's coming. It rumbles beneath him—louder, more intense than being in the seat of a car.

She takes off, and the wind rushes. He's at least experienced the speed before, if not exactly accustomed to it. There's a moment as he adjusts, filtering out the noises from each other over the sounds he isn't used to hearing.

In a sense, he's beginning to understand: it does feel alive, in its own way. It's the difference from sitting inside a vehicle and riding atop one, maybe. Something about it carries just enough of the edges of familiarity that he finds himself settling into the motion—how it swerves and leans as Nadine brings them around the corner of her town.

Can a man not appreciate his best friend in the whole of the world? No! Two worlds, even! Can you imagine how fraught life would be, should you have not had me by your side here? For one, you would be a lot more depressing. I am truly the light in your life, and I am proud of it.

[He is well and truly drunk now. White girl drunk. Perhaps a level beyond.

Jaskier mostly cannot help it. He has never had a true vacation, not like this. Away from the career he is building (even if he is attempting to spread his name to Aquila when he's far more sober), with a lover who turns to a wolf, mentally connected to his best friend in order to update him on every facet of the adventure, instead of relying on a letter that will never arrive.

It's a strange life here, but it's a good one overall. Despite the things he remembers now, he's... recovering. Things are still bright.]

[ The answer takes a long time to come. Geralt is not ignoring it. Reflecting, possibly. He knows these things. They've been friends for a long time. He came back and Jaskier did not turn him away. If there's one human he will never doubt will remain by his side, it's Jaskier.

But knowing and being told, so explicitly, are two different things. And he is not a man who often puts what's most important to him into words.

So he does not. Instead, the next time Jaskier visits his domain, he will find Moglad drinking by magical luminesce of a bird-shaped light. The graceful design suggests Geralt likely received some assistance on how it should appear. Who from? Fuck knows. Maybe it was one person, maybe several. Maybe he created it after seeing something like it in the Aquila markets. Geralt will not say. He will not, in fact, acknowledge the lamp at all or that he gifted it—though the moogle naturally will not be able to keep this information to itself. ]

They roar about the square, Nadine leaning low over the front. Why has it taken her so long to make one of these? She'd forgotten how damn good it feels to just go on such a powerful machine. There's plenty of space even in her own domain to joyride, and there's all of the Horizon to make for a unique scenic ride.

She hopes Geralt is enjoying. She turns onto the road that goes out through the farms and into the woods, a long stretch flanked on either side by idyllic pastures and orchards in bloom and an old red barn here and there. The cows that eternally graze beyond the white wooden fences look up as they pass and resume their grazing with little other reaction.

Here she lets it go with a whoop of joy, increasing speed and tearing down the empty road, letting the wind and the roar and the speed clear her mind.

[Through the rest of the trip, Jaskier still fills Geralt in. He doesn't feel anything he's said has made any deep points, mostly because a lot of it was the wine speaking (which does, sometimes, make him more morose than bubbly, he can admit.) A lot of his messages he doesn't really recall, but luckily he does recall the lyrics he sent Geralt in fragments of a shipwreck in the sea.

(He held onto Hector's ring while he sent the massage, fingertip circling where it hung from his neck.)

It is some time later he seeks solace in his domain, though honestly, it's mostly to check that Moglad hasn't broken any more branches or sat on another jewelwisp. Luckily, neither has happened, though there are a rather startling amount of empty wine bottles around Moglad's room when he peeks his head in.

Moglad rises, though, his pom lighting up bright. Master, you've returned! There's a gift, a gift, kupo! And he flutters, leading Jaskier to the table near the workshops where a lamp has been carefully placed, easily catching the eye, lighting the entranceway to the rooms.

He touches one of the birds. It's merely warm. You'll never believe who it's from, kupo!]

Geralt. [No. He does believe it.

Somehow it's the little lamp that lets him release a few tears he has been holding back -- once for every time he touched Rinwell's book, hiding it away with his songbook, or when he awoke and felt the cool bone ring against his naked skin. Two birds. Was it intentional? Isn't everything does intentional?

A hoot comes down from the rafter above him. There, sleepy-eyed, sits the puff of feathers that is Rinwell's owl. A mostly silent guardian.

He's rather attached himself to this bird motif, hasn't he?]

Moglad helped me weave a new spell. He calls it "moogle magic," can you imagine? It doesn't exactly flow off the tongue. What it does do, however, is ensure some things cannot be broken.

[And yes, they did work magic over it. Yes, it doesn't matter, because it's the Horizon. But it does. It matters just as much as the plants he waters, the leaves he plucks, dead in Bleobheris's branches. Yes, it matters brilliantly.]

abraxas:: INBOX

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Motorcycle Time - Horizon

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package, june 2

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