#ofdruigh

the look the witcher casts her goes far beyond the usual wariness reserved for sorceresses and, instead, rests squarely in the realm of annoyance. it is not a wholly unfair assessment as she had peered a bit too closely at the griffin head but the chance to see even a portion of such a beast in detail had piqued her curiosity. still, uncommon as griffins were, witchers within toussaint were all the rarer. how fortunate that one seems to have appeared just in her hour of need.

her first words had been of assurance of fair payment in exchange for assistance lest the witcher before her grow insufferable. her bone-dry response had been unexpected, nearly enough to have celine's lips twitch into a smile.

"well, in that case," celine finally counters warmly in response. "i suspect insufficient payment would make you all the more insufferable. were i rewarded wholly in coin for my services, i don't doubt i'd feel similarly." uncanny eyes, gleaming shining gold beneath the afternoon sun, bore into her though she does not flinch. she thinks distantly of geralt and their few, brief conversations in novigrad, how his feline gaze had glinted in the torchlight.

she gestures over her shoulder towards one of the small taverns scattered throughout francollarts. the villagers go about their daily business around them, fresh from the waterfront or fields. "give me but a few minutes of your time, that's all i ask." celine looks to the witcher's horse and briefly considers lifting her hand to pet its muzzle before deciding it a poor choice, indeed. "i'll even buy a few apples for your horse as a gesture of my gratitude. such a pretty creature."

cyberpunk 2077 ( accepting! ) / @ofdruigh

   “Well,” V. now fully walks in the small dusty room, her hands sinking comfortably into the bright yellow canary puffer jacket “I was guessin’ either that or I’d be dropped as soon as I walked in here-” dark brown eyes look around.

Cobwebs, sure, outdated tech with a certain type of charm, at least three guns that are visible (God only knew how many in hand’s reach without her bein’ able to actually catch, hackin’ wasn’t her shit). The mercenary smiles more openly, pushing herself further into the room and sitting on one of the empty chairs in front of the other “But I don’t think I’ve ever given enough reason to piss you off yet.”

The smile said it plainly: so far so good.

She doubted that anyone in Night City could throw anything at her that she couldn’t crawl away from. The scar on her head from Dex’s bullet was barely visible, Vik bein’ the wizard he was. She had been jumped by Arasaka more times than she could count. Maybe, in some strange and gnarly way, she could even describe how to undo specific parts of Arasaka’s gangoon’s in a way that could get her to get them to bleed out the most efficiently.

Gotta be the weirdest way that her preppin’ for her parents’ stall while cuttin’ synthetic scop into patties had prepared her for the life she ended up leadin’.

   “Though when you say ‘old fashion’, I keep thinkin’ more Wako than…” bitten through nails wave around the space between them. Then again, Wakako had been married about a thousand times inheriting everythin’ in between. Plus that mind never slept on anyone’s business much less her own. Plus, if everyone in Night City was goin’ to end up with the same gaudy style then God help them all.

Turning herself on the chair, she heard it squeek, threatning to collapse under the weight. If that bothered the mercenary that didn’t seem to matter. Instead, V. looked up to the fixer, or half merc, who knew what type of gig she was about to fall into. Hopefully something that could unearth another way of fixing the hole she was in.

a notification trills from his wristwatch, just like it always does upon the turn of a new hour, and alongside the unobtrusive clock at the bottom left of his visual interface, he becomes keenly aware it's 11 pm. @ofdruigh (as Brynn) is twenty minutes late, and apparently no amount of endless staring at the second floor window by the fire exit will make her appear any faster. Vann knows he shouldn't have left, shouldn't have listened even after being told more than once to 'fuck off before we're both stripped for parts' but he did, and he'd rather not risk a check - in call when it could do far more harm than any type of good. He continues to watch the door from the corner of the dilapidated room, a set of amber - upon - black Kiroshis barely given away by the neon light streaming in through the broken blinds.

Brynn tends to overcome the odds stacked against her almost every time, whether it be with help or by herself. They've already joked once or twice about her resemblance to a cat and its nine lives, though the grim reality is that Night City won't ever be as generous as that. On his last glance at Brynn before weaving an escape through industrial storage containers, she was busy sticking a knife through the throat of a hulked - up Maelstromer, more cyberware than woman by that point, while pinned down under a hail of gunfire.

he could have stayed. The money shard in his pocket and the congratulatory (if performatively remorseful) call on a job well done sit in his pocket and inner ear bitterly. Vann won't spot it until he stands up to leave and his leg hurts, but he's begun to bounce his knee. The clock reads 11:22 pm. He stands and walks to the window, almost punching the button to lift the blinds. There's no way he's risking the front door, and the narrow side alley with the fire escape stairs is a more defensible position than the lobby

with one leg and half his body past the window, he finds himself staring at Brynn, whose fist is but inches away from banging on the door. There's blood caked upon her face, likely a mix of hers and however many gangoons' she's either killed or given the slip, but he can't bring himself to care now. She cuts a relieving silhouette in the neon light. Vann backtracks, she makes an entrance out of his intended exit, and the room suddenly isn't as lonely or depressing anymore.

❛❛ Don't ever tell me ❜❜ he begins in protest, but he cuts himself off when Brynn takes a telltale step closer to him; predictably, her arms encircle his neck, and he pulls her close with the urgency only relief can stoke in a person. He can't help but to draw back and kiss her hard, only partially blocking out the metallic tang of blood that he can taste on her lips. They're a cocktail of dissipating tension and muted joy, laced with exhaustion.

❛❛ Scold me later, ❜❜ Brynn tells him, lingering against him for a fraction of a second before her instincts kick in again, ❛❛ we still have some ground to cover. ❜❜

He notices she's limping slightly, and gives up on the possibility of being angry or even slightly inconvenienced. Vann will have forgotten about it by the time they're sat down safely and they're able to look each other over for major injuries, because the hands upon his back will tell him she's still alive and that's enough for him.

prompts ( * always accepting )

"are they really that cryptic anymore?" they both know what's coming for them. brynn is a little further ahead of the curve than she is, but that hardly matters when the destination is the same. there is no outrunning the calling. it will come when it's time, and when it does, there is only one place left to go.

she doesn't like thinking about it at all. years have passed and yet, nelka still remembers hespith's gaunt and hopeless face. she still remembers her haunting poem, echoing against the stones, and the horror that awaited them in that domed room of packed earth and tainted flesh. there is no cure in the world that would rid her of those memories.

brynn is light-handed. far more than he'd anticipated. the press of her thumb into his sun-hardened skin was firmer in his imagination—get a hold of yourself, captain, he can hear the scold of his gibbs-voiced consciousness echo in his head. he would shrug, if brynn didn't give a warning hiss and the needle finally stung, heavier by intention. jack cackles. ink will clot there, along the stretching muscle of his shoulder blade, but he gives no impression of caring.

“are you sure you've never done it before? you are certainly very swift, my dear. is it turning out nicely? my reputation of fearsome pirate captain is in your hands, y'know.”

a golden earring dangles softly as he slightly cants his head, trying to get a look at brynn's focused face. “i will pay you back—” better not get her hopes up. “in handiwork of equal refinement.”