#rozpustnik

@rozpustnik​ /  ❛ Okay, but, um what the hell is this? ❜

*   &.   the good place sentence starters  —

“we have to stop meeting like this, little flower,” geralt says, voice low and tinged with sarcasm. “can i buy you a DRINK?” the bar fight geralt had just gotten in had ENDED quickly, and the man clutching his nose quickly retreated as geralt sat next to dandelion.

clean it up.  i’m not finished with you.  we will continue this later.

there’s a dullness in pawel’s eyes that used to not be there.  he used to be the great VALDO MARX  --  a traveling bard with a beautiful voice, known in the courts and pubs alike.  nearly as famous as dandelion.  alas, one day, valdo up and vanished without a trace.  the truth was, menge had taken him hostage after learning his relationship with a known incubus... and the fact that pawel was now immortal thanks to a mage’s spell... menge had his way with him.  broke him over the course of a year -- maybe more, maybe less.  pawel really didn’t know how much time he lost.  it’s mostly a blur now, leaving nothing in it’s wake but misery.  he could not find his music again, so he went back to the only other thing he knew:  service.  it’d taken a lot of convincing to get this job in the first place, and now he’s put it in jeopardy because his hands never stopped shaking.  he’s on his knees, cleaning up the spilled food...  and when the chatter finally starts again, pawel brings up a hand to his lip.  it’s bleeding.

he doesn’t look the same  --  it’s no wonder people do not recognize him, but he remembers some of the partygoers quite well, having shared intimate liaisons with quite a few of them.  alas with his clean shaven face and his cropped curls, he is almost a completely different man.  pawel blinks back some tears as he gathers the broken pieces.  ( he’ll never be able to glue them back together, will he? ) 

In all honesty, he wasn't certain he wanted to know. Most of his life had been spent alone with his horse being the only company he'd wanted. It was easier that way given the fact that people tended to look at him like he was a monster. And maybe he was. He had barely survived the training that had turned him into the Witcher he was and the last thing he wanted was someone hanging around him looking for — Jace didn't even know what the hell he was looking for. He didn't even know who he was. Only that somehow he'd managed to attract his attention and now it felt like he couldn't get rid of him. There was the threat of violence, of course, but that was something he tried not to use unless it was absolutely necessary. And right now it wasn't necessary. "And who the hell are you?"

[ @rozpustnik​ ]

          I WISH IT WERE NOT SO, he tells to his noble companion. I wish it was not so inevitable that this be my fate, and yet it is. Searching for Love, for Companionship, made reckless in the Night. Of Yennefer. And he could not stay, so, against all bound odds, he must leave in the Night, too. And he is composed entirely of nothing. That is, a Void, empty, dark, and reflective, perhaps, of that he consumes. Selfishly. Utterly uncomplicated. And utterly Lonely.

           “Are you chasing something, or running away?” He asks. The silence stuns, and he neglects the urge to tell Dandelion to shut up. That he ought to be chasing a place for them to set up camp before it grows too dark. But he doesn’t. And he revels in the quiet. For a time.

          “You’re talking rubbish, Dandelion.”

         “Aha, now I see----”

          Geralt silences him with a glance. They continue on. In Silence. Uncharacteristic Silence. They find good land, just outside of a cleared cave, where they set up camp. The fire burns. The moon is awfully pointed. The stars could be brighter. And Dandelion could be much more talkative. But here they are. In Silence. Uncharacteristic Silence.

          Dandelion pulls dried meats from Geralt’s pack. He does not mind. He says nothing. Geralt pets Roach, then feeds her from a sack of oats. She is very polite, for having endured a long day of trekking. He feeds her a surplus. Slight, considering all circumstances. He, himself, does not eat. He has no need to--or, perhaps, wish to. 

         When they settle in for the night, Dandelion presses the issue again. I do not know what you see in that woman, he says. Then you never will, Geralt pouts. And Dandelion pouts back. But they still hold each other close, for it is a cold night, and they must huddle together for warmth. And they do. Unashamedly. 

          He inevitably regrets confiding in his Dear Poetaster. No good will come of it. But, then, no good will come of anything. For it is his Fate to kill Monsters, and kill the Feeling within him, and not much else. Dandelion nods, sees through Geralt. Perhaps it is to be expected. Geralt speaks of Atavistic Remnants, of Emotion Stripped, of Aching, Yearning, Longing. I am gaunt and hungry, like a Savage cat, starving in the Night. But even that hisses at me. He means to say: thus, here I am. With such deep and utter Finality.