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[gynvael]

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» Horizon

Geralt is always reachable by the network. Unless it's an emergency, expect not to hear back for a few hours, if not a few days.

To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.

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[towerjunkie]

The castle ruins feel familiar.

Roland, dressed head to toe like a gunslinger of old, doesn't know why that is, but it comforts him. He can picture how things would have looked, back when there was life here. The forges would have rung with the sounds of metal being hammered into shape. The crack of guns in the distance as young men put to practice what they'd learned. Even the snow makes him think of fire, and old men reading aloud to a group of eager children.

As he walks through the ruin, his footprints leave a coating of sand on the snow-- and he doesn't feel the cold. The feeling of a desert is within him, and he isn't sure what it means of if it can be escaped.

He comes to the main door of the keep-- one he expects to lead to the great hall. Rather than open it he knocks. He's learned the places in the Horizon can be very personal, and he'll respect that. His voice is loud and he throws it out with the intent to carry far.

"Hile! Roland comes a-calling! If it please you, I'd enter your halls and palaver with you."

There ought to be more than just Roland. A name isn't enough for a man-- but while he's met people to share his name, none have shed more light on what else he ought to know and doesn't.

[gynvael]

That a soul has wandered by his domain is not unusual. Nor is the knocking. Geralt's come to expect visitors now and again while he's in here—though he doesn't always greet them.

The name. That part's new. As is the declaration to palaver. Geralt hasn't met any Roland. Nor does he know of anyone by that name. And as strange as it is to think about, for him, that's different. Of those who can enter the Horizon, Geralt is familiar with a good handful by now. Hard not to when half of them were locked up together and the other half came in and out of the dungeons.

He sets his sword aside, where he's been oiling it for lack of anything better to do while he's here. (Waiting for her, maybe.) The doors open with a heavy creak—both of them.

Geralt sets his gaze on the man standing in the snow. It's not an unfriendly face that looks back at him, but it is a hard face. And an unfamiliar one. One eyebrow lifts. He doesn't quite step aside yet, but his expression is more curious than wary.

"What's this about?"