Witcher

the rapture. an event benjamin was all too familiar with. but if that had happened, he would have felt it. he would have been called back to heaven would have been able to see bj again. this wasn’t that. this … this was something else. something that flew under his radar, under everyone’s radar, it seemed. and that was very concerning.

benjamin turns his head toward the man who reeks of alcohol ( much more than himself, which was saying something ) and shakes his head. “ whatever this is, we weren’t invited for a reason. ” he pauses, looking the other over. ben knew why he wasn’t invited – but what was his deal ? “ yeaahhh … i have a feeling it’s really gonna suck for us. i mean – ” he nods to the dark sky. “ this ? not a good sign. at all. ”

klaus follows the others gaze upwards - shrugs and takes another pull on the bottle of wine.

“nope.  especially not if you need to breathe... oxygen -- photosynthesis.”

while he may be inebriated, he’s still capable of getting the word out in one go.  being intoxicated or high was just another day in the life of this hargreeves.  he’s pretty used to it.  a necessity to control the invasive dead.

but there’s more relief that he’s not just tripping balls.  that the things he’s seeing are not in his mind only.  sometimes it gets hard to tell.

“sooooo -- who’re you and why d’you reckon your invite to the mass exodus was lost, friend?”

he’s pretty sure he knows why his was lost - because people have seen him as a loser his entire life.  but golden boy here didn’t look like he fit the same shitty mould...

     𝐥𝐞𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧. ( 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 )

❛  ———  such a pity about those mortals.  ❜   someone might of taken his tone as sincere before a smirk gathers at the corners of the noctis mouth. his eyes focus on the creature in front of him, slowly he moves towards them as his hands rest behind his back.  ❛  ah  ❜  he says.

his head gently shakes with amusement. standing straight while admiring the brick buildings that surrounded them, the darkness was no stranger to the man who spoke near softly.

his head turns back to the figure as his curiosity peeks.   ❛  no harm will be done to you. we are all children of the mother. the only ones to face their untimely end will be those who dare go against us.  ❜

those mortals

the words make him freeze for a beat in his tracks.  so intent on finding -- people -- that klaus hadn’t really stopped to think that they might not be... ‘people’.  and the seance himself?  well as far as he’s aware, he’s very, very - mortal.  his siblings weren’t immortal ( the sometimes presence of his brother ben really rather proved the tragedy of that ).  his mother hadn’t been mortal.  who the fuck knew who his daddy was - none of the 43 women who’d popped out a mystery baby overnight had knocked boots with any significant other as far as he knew.

no harm will be done to you

that was probably supposed to be reassuring.  actually not reassuring. anyone who had to reassure about harm, or lack thereof - was clearly thinking about and/or capable of it.  

uh... yikes?

well... in for a penny and all. there’s a sway to his hips that’s not entirely swagger - definitely lubricated by the bottle of wine swinging from one hand.  happily liberated from an empty shop.  and said bottle is pointed at the chiselled jaw in front of him.

“weird flex, but okay.“

a purse of lips and a nod.   

“and what if you find any mortals?  are they fair game for ‘harm’?  and whose mom?  yours?  because mine is definitely deaddo - kaput - a grand ole corpsicle.  and who is us?  because as far as ominous villain speeches go, you’re really only missing the swivel chair and fluffy white pussy to stroke. and why is belly button fluff always blue?”

“and... no wait - start with those...”

the morning after. – location: a street with local artisanal shops. tallin, estonia. open to: anyone !

an unease has settled within the angel’s chest. it’s nearly seven in the morning there in tallin, but there would always be at least a couple of people roaming the streets. going for their morning jog, walk, run. walking their dog, unlocking the doors to their shops. however … this morning, there was none. it was a fairly quiet morning save for the chirping of the birds. he thinks perhaps people are just sleeping in after a night of fun, but … his intuition tells him otherwise.

as he walks down the street, passing one of the bakeries, he turns his head to see if anyone is inside yet – and there is not. he merely sees his own reflection, suited in a dark green velvet dress coat, black slacks, and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the top. brows begin to crease with concern. “ no one’s home … ” he mumbles to himself, continuing on his path to look through every window he comes across.

benjamin looks up to the windows above. not a single movement. no light, no one opening their windows. he closes his eyes and focuses on listening to the sounds of the day. usually there would be some kind of music. footsteps. conversation. yelling. shuffling. the turning of a page, the fluff of a newspaper. today ? nothing.

he opens his eyes and tightens his jaw. no one’s home. “ something isn’t right. ”

seven in the morning isn’t a time that klaus usually sees from the ‘early’ side of the day.  he had, in fact, been up and out all night.  so technically for him.... it’s late.  and late usually meant people shouting at him for making too much noice as he wandered ( or staggered ) along streets.  seven in the morning is when he gets ‘looks’ from people in the rising light of dawn - taking the ‘walk of shame’ back to his domicile.  apart from the fact there was no dawn.  and there were no people.

he’d poked his head into stores to find them unattended and empty ( hence the bottle of wine in one hand - something he’d helped himself to along the way ).  

and after several hours of wandering - a sense of tightening dread in his chest ( was he dead?  had he died and just not noticed?  that would be a horribly ironic end for the seance after all )... he sees a figure - feet practically tripping over themselves to catch up.  to make sure it’s not a vision, not an illusion, and not a spectre in his vision.

“it’s the rapture!!!”

one hand makes a sweeping gesture at the still dark sky.  but bright as the words are when they leave his lips, his voice is a little too brittle.  

“and i missed it.  or - more likely...”

leaning forward in a slightly conspiratorial manner, as though some kind of grand secret was about to be revealed...

“...i wasn’t invited.”

one hand ( the one not holding the wine ) does reach out in a friendly gesture - clapping the other very briefly on his arm.  it’s another test.  a sudden relief to see that they’re ‘solid’ and not simply a figment of his imagination.

“guess you weren’t invited either.  sucks to be us, huh?”

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐔𝐏 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄-𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐍𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, Evia clears her throat. “Oh it is most certainly a distraction,” Evia says coolly. “A false pretense. Not all the names of the missing and killed have even been released.” She shakes her head. But she’s still here, because an invitation from the High Council is to many a thinly veiled demand. Show Up. That’s how it was for The Harvest. That’s how it is for this masquerade. Evia fidgets with her wolf mask. “I don’t think they’re even trying to make this seem like a commemoration of the dead.” 

“hmm.”

a nod.  he doesn’t suppose the council would let people know if they could help it.  keep things quiet, keep people calm.  especially as a lot of those ‘people’ could cause plenty of devastation of their own accord should they see fit.  

“it feels as though things are dangling from a fraying rope.”

patience.  tolerance.  things that kept any kind of social order in check.  and should that rope -- snap -- even the council itself would have it’s work cut out reinstating any kind of ‘order’.

“can’t commemorate what you don’t know.  possibly a distraction for some.  but until there’s something definitive about these -- murders -- i for one, won’t be letting down my guard.”

a quick glance to the side as the festivities continued in front of them - loud and brittle and somewhat uncouth given the circumstance.  and it looked as though she was of the same mind - more uncomfortable than celebratory.  though there is a random change of topic - something that happened quite often with geralt - his mind and words jumping from one to the next.

“why a wolf?”

╰ °✧｡ / continued from here with @wolfmyth​

the first thing charlotte picked up on was the overwhelmingly smell of intoxication , if she didn’t have to work she might have drained him right there on the spot for the high it would provide. the red head pursed her lips in irritation as she dragged dark eyes over his disheveled state , “  if that’s how you really feel then why are you jeopardizing that so-called precious time by getting high , hm ? “  she rolled her eyes before dropping them to her nails , sucking her teeth as she turned over what he said in her head.

the vampire heaved a sigh , “ just because i’m immortal doesn’t make getting stood up any easier , you know ? “ she threw back a murky red shot of something before motioning to the bartender for another , “ are you okay ? not to be rude , but you smell like you ate an entire pharmacy. “

“who doesn’t like to party?”

a bright grin flashes back in her direction.  klaus so used to being passed off as a ‘waste’ or a ‘junkie’ by everyone else - why try to explain?  the truth was rather far from it.  twisted chemistry was the only way to block out the voices.  to blur the shapes of the dead in his vision.  to -- normalise.... in so much as anything was ever -- ‘normal’.

he’s familiar with those looks of distain.   with the critical glances.  the derogatory words.

he’s not ‘wasting his time’ - he’s trying to use it without being huddled in a corner, gripping his skull, unable to function from an unstoppable invasion of the dead.

“getting high - is just a glorious side effect of self medication.”

another grin and he’s twirling on his toes.  not too far gone.  not sober either.  he does, however, stop spinning, long enough to steady himself and take a closer look. 

“someone stood you up?”

maybe they’re dead. he doesn’t say it.  but it’s been a common theme around here lately. maybe they will be dead. if the vampire got her hands on them and decided to let her displeasure be known.

“more fool them.”

she’s not exactly ‘his type’, but he can well imagine that she would be the source of many a hot-blooded male fantasy.

“so now you’re flying solo - that’s entirely their loss.”  

a shrug, feet still tapping in time to the music.  there’s not a moment where klaus doesn’t attempt to celebrate life ( most specifically his own ) because he’s all too well acquainted with what can happen afterwards.  trying to squeeze as much joy as he can from every moment as possible.  and, at the moment, the glamorous, glorious redhead looked as though she was enjoying the night as much as someone would enjoy finding a shit in their shoe.  

“that’s because i did. now, are you going to sit there all night brooding over another glass of....”

ew.  okay, but hey - each to their own.

“...or are you going to dance with me?”

“….hmm….”

“that would be nice.”

he’s probably not getting the point.

“sheep in fields.  sharks in the water.  each getting on with their lives - never the twain shall meet.”

he imagines she means that the sheep are the humans.  less than aware, wandering blindly while the predators ( likely referring to those deemed ‘monsters’ ) circle.  but it would be particularly difficult for a shark to circle a sheep on land.

“unless you have some kind of sheep flinging catapult.  in which case…”

he shrugs.  visions of bloody carnage.  seeping red into the water.  the panicked splashing and feeble bleating of the wooly beast singing into a maw of razor sharp teeth.

“…or the sheep learn how to fish.”

shark flopping on land, out of water - rubbery bodies failing to cope, gils flapping madly as they try to breathe.  only for the sheep to saunter away for a tasty patch of grass…

It was hard to stay mad at Geralt for long. Not with those damn cat eyes. But wait, that was the alcohol starting to take over for his inner voice. It kept him there, too, becoming more agreeable by the minute. He  mock pouted in Geralt’s direction as he took the oh-so-roughly offered seat, with a huff, “Sit? Am I a dog? Though I suppose so, as I’m currently here…sitting.”

Their last conversation/fight had been centered around something of the sort, Jaskier feeling like his presence was only welcome when a certain Witcher himself requested it. Really made a guy feel special. But look at him now, continuing the same old routine: ‘Hey, nice seein’ ya after all these years. Will I stay? For you? Anything. Oh, you’ve found better? Cool. I’ll just….see you around…’

Sure it wasn’t like he waited around for Geralt. He’d been everywhere and met everyone, but there WAS one name he always listened out for. One name that could get him to travel to wherever he was last seen, in the hope of one glimpse, or better yet a new adventure. Which brought them full circle, because despite not being in town for Geralt this time, he would certainly accept some sort of quest.

“It still pays the bills, and with the internet becoming a thing, it’s way easier to find gigs.” He motioned to the bar around them with its neon lights and sticky floors, clearly he was absolutely thriving. 

“So, with all these creatures in town, how is your Witcher-tingle? Murder-y? Kumbaya-y? Making friends or getting bloody?” Who was he kidding? Geralt didn’t really make friends. The idea was nearly laughable, and he leaned closer to the man as the corner of his mouth twitched upward at the thought.

dog?  no. puppy?  absolutely.

geralt is fairly certain that if jaskier had a tail it would be constantly wagging, eager energy on display for all to see at each and every new person he meets.  mix in with that a magpies eye... not for shiny things, but pretty things, unusual things, things that caught his attention ( and by ‘things’ he means ‘people’, and by ‘people’, he means -- everyone ).  

even the pout ( such as it is ) is matched with those doe like ‘puppy eyes’.  so... mmhm.

the witcher does have enough resolve in him not to reply in the affirmative ( by word, or grunt or gesture ) as that would likely send the bard into a frenzy.

every detail on the others face is picked out in clear resolution, even in the dim light of the bar.  his scent, changing with the latest trend of soap or aftershave or deodorant - still has that underlying tone that geralt would be able to track for days -- a very ‘jaskier’ smell... something that reminds him of wheat fields, fresh sawdust, spring rain... fresh and earthy.

his eyes do narrow ever so slightly as the somewhat dismissive gesture though -- 

“i thought you had a record deal... hit the big time.  fame and fortune... that sort of thing...”

because he’s more than aware that - yes - that had happened ( and he’ll say no more about it, but you don’t get to 800 years, collecting said ‘coin’ without looking for somewhere to put it.  -- for a creature of very simple needs, the witcher had - eventually - earned more than was strictly necessary for himself... a lot more. )

and - as usual - there’s less than a span of breaths before the talk ( well... jaskier talking, geralt chipping in with something resembling a sentence here and there ) turns to the next adventure.  or at least the possibility of it. 

--geralt was prone to complaining about jaskiers incessant chatter or singing or plucking on that damned lute. --equally, he seems to recall that the bard wasn’t keen on geralts affinity for blood splatter, gore, heads in sacks carried to collect a bounty, and days... sometimes longer, without a decent bath.

so... was it possible (???) - that as much as he’d missed the presence of the blue eyed annoyance... the bard had equally missed the visceral chaos of the hunt.

...perhaps.

“my witcher... what?”

it takes a moment before he gets the gist. -- oh...

“mmmh.  not bloody.  yet.”

because of course - witchers are too abrasive to make... friends.  very - very - few actually stuck around long enough, at least, beyond first impressions, to find out that... well, actually... yes, he’s abrasive as fuck.  and that’s pretty much a constant.  but there is a deeper layer... if you were patient.  persistent... or otherwise out of your mind.  he’s pretty sure jaskier is at least two out of those three.

“it doesn’t make things easy when just about every other person is... not quite a ‘person’.”

those sharply honed senses almost overwhelmed.  dead and undead.  blood an almost constant.  animal, feral, chaos mixed and magical... it was more -- difficult -- to try to pick them apart when the numbers were so great.  

“doesn’t make it easy to track a murderer either.”

not that there weren’t plenty of those on the streets amid vampires and wolves and assorted others ( include witchers too if you like, after all, sometimes their killing wasn’t ‘strictly’ limited to the ‘inhuman’ monsters out there... ) -- 

“but most of the other.... visitors... to town - seem to be keeping a lid on it.  for now.”

“i suppose it’s too late to ask that you try to keep a low profile... at least until the bodies stop piling up?”

𝐕𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 - 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊, 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄, 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐘, 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑. Something about throwing a party while these mage attacks have been going on feels wrong to her. This is a distraction during a time of fear and mourning and uncertainty. In little bursts she has been able to enjoy her gown and the luxuries of the evening, the champagne and the hors d’oeuvres, but it is hard to escape the tenseness that lingers in others’ demeanor. She wants people to have a good time but she senses a great deal of deceit behind the glamour and it sits poorly in her gut.

he’s here for two reasons.

1. every ‘occasion’ he’s ever attended where jaskier was present, somehow resulted in at least one person trying to kill the bard. 2. yennefer might be one of the most powerful mages  - and a member of the council, but he’s unsettled by recent events enough to want to be... here -- just in case any kind of threat presented.

of course, he’s not particularly having fun.  shoulders strung taut like steel cables. ‘fun’ - is not something that enters too easily into the witchers vocabulary. it does appear though, as though he’s not the only one slightly disquieted by the somewhat lavish affair - it feels twisted, even to him, to laugh and relax so soon after such recent tragedies. 

“are they celebrating the dead?  or just trying to distract from it?  what do you think?”

the whole affair is decidedly more ‘refined’ than the entirety of one klaus hargreeves… however - he’s not one to miss out on a party.  any party.  he could give two shades of a shit for propriety.  and for the most part - people are managing to avoid the slender seance - dressed in a smart tuxedo jacket - no shirt, a leather kilt type skirt and a neon pink feather boa.  his appearance likely far too – tragically common and wholly abrasive – for those of seemingly more lofty classes to rub shoulders with.  most giving him a rather wide berth.

eh, fuck ‘em.

he’s chemically enhanced enough to have drowned out any and all voices of the dead - no fun going to a party when you have a gaggle of spirits shrieking about their unfinished business for 24 hours - and the pills and potions have left him lax and mellow.

“what’s a guy got to do to find a decent vermouth around here?”

attempting to orient to the closest bar.  because hell, when people are disappearing off the streets and the bodies are piling up, what better distraction than a shindig - during which people can probably do at least one thing they regret... preferably two...

He felt the burst of air too late to do anything about it, landing hard on the ground. Even though he was in a town full of magic users and the supernatural, the source of the spell was obvious. Damnit, Geralt. The alcohol hadn’t yet reached his bloodstream, but standing from where he’d fallen made him a little lightheaded. Wait, when was the last time he’d eaten? Stupid immortality, still requiring all sorts of human things. He’d tried to go without, once. See how long he could last. It was three days before his bones ached and his body became stiff, and after a week, he blacked out until his muse at the time, a kind young blonde, took pity on him and fed his lifeless body. And that was that. Alive. Still. He’d tried much more reckless things, during darker times, but those were best left forgotten. They hadn’t worked anyway. 

After an apology to those around him, he finished his drinks and made his way across the crowded room, keeping his expression as neutral as possible until he reached his target, “That is certainly no way to greet an old friend, you….ass.” 

Usually quite eloquent, he was reduced to childish whisper-yelling, uncharacteristically attempting to protect what little of his reputation remained positive in the town. Usually, Jaskier almost proudly collected a bad rep, basking in it and swanning around, adding to his own story. However, he had no idea how long the Harvest would last, how long he’d be in Estonia. So he’d been careful. No thanks to the Witcher.

“Anyone at all could have….I don’t know how you’ve lived all these years just using your magic  whenever the mood strikes. Honestly. What do you have to say for yourself, Geralt?” The name felt strange on Jaskier’s tongue. Unfamiliar, as he’d only used it in the man’s company, what little amount of time that had been. To everyone else, he was “the Witcher” or “my friend” or “that asshole” or a collection of metaphors that kept finding themselves into his songs. In his own thoughts, Geralt was more of a set of memories, smells, feelings, tangled together over the centuries. And every time they surfaced, they took his breath away. Quite like the air that was displaced in the room a moment before. 

Hands on his hips, he stood over the man’s table, glaring in anticipation of an answer. Or more likely, a grunt and a frown.

there it is. the jaw set.  the determination.  the veritable whirlwind that is jaskier.  sometimes he wonders if chaos hadn’t touched the bard too - a kind of magic all of his own making.  something about the energy that seemed to constantly flow, to glow, to be infinite in it’s capacity.

the glass in geralts hand turns slowly, and he takes his time to savour the flood of offence - lets the sound of the bards affronted voice soak into his senses once more.  yes, they had been something of a constant over the years - even without jaskiers presence.  with the invention of recordings and broadcasts and other such things, technology had meant that he was never too far away from the sound.  but there was a difference - an insurmountable difference - between listening to something from a time past, a pretence at presence - and listening to that voice with his own ears.  real and here.

it was annoying. it was also wonderful.

“hm...”  

just a low sound.  which was something of a greeting - in so far as any of those grunts or mutters were.

“...neither is ignoring them completely.”

he finally looks up.  sees that flustered fury in all of it’s magnificence.  somehow he manages to keep the grin from his face ( not hard for the witcher, schooled in the suppression of ‘emotion’ as he is ).  but even without the grin, perhaps those hard lines to the witchers face are not quite so firm.  not a frown.  not entirely a smile either.... perhaps, there is... somewhere... the hint of a welcome there. ( if you know what to look for ).

one booted foot kicks at a chair - sliding it out from the other side of the table.

“sit down.”

he wonders if whatever fight they’d had was still fresh in jaskiers mind.  it was not present in geralts.  years had stolen the harsh words, the raised voices.  he can’t even remember what it had been about.  and while the witcher was more than capable of holding a grudge - he never has toward his... friend.  he doesn’t doubt, however - that jaskier was more than capable of remembering each and every thing about it.  

where geralt was poor with words - they were the very tools of the bards trade.  where geralt was detached from ( most ) emotion - jaskier practically bled it from every pore.  ‘heart on his sleeve’ didn’t quite cover it.

and as much as jaskier was not ‘owed’ an explanation, perhaps geralt did feel a small twinge at tipping him from his chair.

“it’s not a big deal.  no one noticed.  and you’re fine.”

aside from perhaps a slightly bruised arse and bruised ego.

The smile only stretches across her face, “Oh, I would beg to differ.” She said in response nearly as soon as the words left his lips. That much could be said about her, on occasion but Geralt he dove in with no care for himself, perhaps because he had no ties to anyone — nothing lasting at least, because the thought of the person waiting on the other side for you changed everything, didn’t it?

As he drew closer, Yennefer could conjure up in her mind every other moment in time when they’d come together much in the same manner, across the span of their long history. She’d once said she couldn’t rid herself of him, and for the better part of her life she’d lost the desire for those words to become reality altogether. Yet the question would always remain, this bond they shared how much of it was the truth in their hearts and now much a fabrication of the magic that had started it all?

She could perhaps know her own heart but to know that of another was even beyond her reach. 

Her mouth upturned at the thought of death, and perhaps one of these days she might just ask him if that were true after all.

Violet gaze lifting back up to him, as he began again she dared hold her breath a moment as he searched for the words. That small inkling of hope left soon enough, feeling foolish that she allowed herself to be disappointed still. And so she let out a deflecting scoff, ignoring the matter of how she’d done for herself all together.

“After all this time do you think I wouldn’t know how to take care of myself, and whomever else might come along?” She questioned, the earlier fondness no longer lingering in her words. 

she misses the point. or seems to at least when he voices his worry and she tutts it away. it’s not surprising.  he’s never been altogether wonderful with words.  a side effect of being a witcher -- effectively a pariah.  isolation was far more common than communication.  a nuance he’d never managed to refine even after all these years.

his concern was not -- generic. it was very specific.  it was for her.

he hadn’t sought her out because of some ‘threat’ ( there was always a threat, always something out there with wicked intent, with the drive and the will to take and harm and feast and feed ).  he had come here to make sure that - she - was okay.  to satisfy that nagging in the back of his brain that caused his skin to prickle unnaturally - his stomach to turn unusually.  a worry that pulled deep in his body, a trouble to his mind.  neither of which occurred very often.

“no.  yes...  fuck.”

how to even answer that.  tongue tied but still spilling words as he ever does in her presence.

“you don’t know what the next thing to come along will be, yennefer.”

for as long as they both had lived - neither had encountered every monster.  every evil.

“i don’t doubt either your capability or capacity - but until you do know, perhaps consider that there may be a danger that neither wits nor chaos can vanquish.”

he’s not the only one who dove head first.... the very first time they’d met ( in another age, another place, where things were harder, but somehow -- easier ), she’d tried to consume a djinn... something that would have consumed her in turn.  she may be strong, clever, powerful, but she was not infallible, nor - even with her longevity - immortal.

“Surely but the Americans use too much. Here in Estonia, at least they can control themselves.” He smirked. “Exactly use the cane sugar.” 

Pan examined the other. Trying to decipher his body language. Creatures fascinated him. The unnatural way people died, that was where he drew the line. But Pan always looked dazed, despite his mischievous mind gears rolling. 

“Nature of rumors…” He said with a distant tone. “That is the nature of words and whispers?” He questions as if the term was so foreign. 

“There are so many secrets my boy,” he replied. There was a knowing smirk. “What if I said I would protect you from death?”  Whatever it took to learn the truth. 

“touché.”

a smirk, and klaus makes a pointy ‘finger guns’ motion toward the other.  he’s still grinning though - that slightly odd smile of a man teetering on the edge of -- something.

“rumours are the staple diet of glossy magazines, teenage girls and clickbait... fun... rubbish but fun.  i suppose the trick is picking out the fragments of truth from the rest of the bullshit... not easy. and possibly not the best in a situation where your life might depend on it.”

the other calls him ‘my boy’.  it’s something that makes his stomach turn slightly.  a patriarchal sounding term that sounded as though it could so easily have tripped off the lorded and mighty ‘sir reginalds’ lips.

but the next words cause him to re-engage his brain.  to pay closer attention.  klaus doesn’t particularly have an issue with death ( though the desire to continue living is particularly strong ) - he has an issue with ‘the dead’... in that they’re... annoying at best.  terrifying at worst.

“i’d say bullshit.  besides, ‘death’ isn’t the problem.  being murdered is the problem.  death is just what happens to you when you run out of life - prematurely or not.”

“Sunny,” the wolf copied the silly bow her new friend did, running a hand through her hair to push it out of her face. She noticed the man’s obvious attempt to dodge his last name, but she didn’t mind. After all, her parents disowned her after she had become a werewolf so it wasn’t like she cared about her family name. 

It was safe to say her companion was a bit odd but she didn’t mind, nor did she mind the stares they were receiving. Sunny wondered if he was chilly in his outfit ( she was in a pair of jeans and a sweater herself ), but she was always cold now that she wasn’t in Miami. 

“I wish it was that easy for me, when I try not to think about it all I can do is think about it. I know for sure I don’t want to be murdered by some creep – or by someone who isn’t a creep. Not until I graduate, at least.” she paused, realizing how much she was rambling. “Anyway, I feel like we are always fending for ourselves here – what has the council ever done for us?”

“sunny.”

he repeats.

“i like that.”

not that his approval or appreciation of her name made a jot of difference.  

“pink elephants.”

a reply with a sage nod of his head, as though he’d just stated something profound and not... pink elephants. 

“the conundrum: don’t think of pink elephants... all you can do is think of pink elephants.”

there is something of a chuckle though.  a bright, if slightly brittle sound... klaus’ nerves rather skimming the edge of an almost perma-hysteria at the best of times...  especially when he was closer to ‘sober’ than not.  when those voices began to seep into his mind - when the flickers of spirits, souls, spectres edged into the periphery of his vision.

“so - graduation then death.  still doesn’t sound like a great plan.”

but her question manages to quiet the quip for a moment.  quite a poignant observation -- 

“for me personally?”

the span of a breath - a pause... but it doesn’t take a lot of thinking about.

“nada.”

“i think you only crop up on their radar if you’re... ancient... rich... powerful... a combination of the above or otherwise.  not sure the minions make the cut.  or -- conversely... not sure the minions ‘getting the cut’ is something they’re overly worried about.”

“... fend for ourselves seems to be the status quo.”