[Log] Geralt & Illyana - Dinner & Stories - Backdated to 3/9

[st_opsummoningme]

Geralt finds himself having dinner and sharing some backstory with a sorceress. Why is it always sorceresses?

He had waited until after he'd seen the healer Illyana had "suggested", figuring she would probably ask, before he'd re-approached the library and suggested they follow up on her idea of dinner. They agreed to meet in the so-called Steakhouse, which was suffused with pink to a disturbing degree.

"I can't figure out why this place needs to look so much like a brothel," he mentioned to Illyana, somewhat quizzically.

Geralt's proof that he could follow basic directions and would not have to hobble slowly the rest of his days had been satisfactory enough that Illyana had made good on their agreement.

She snorted at that. "Because it was a brothel, essentially. The sort of place that people with an excess of money and a deficit of taste would bring their lover to spend most of the time in their room." The gift shop had been especially generous with its offerings during the winter holiday months. Illyana had obviously taken advantage by claiming a pair of knee-high boots and a soft sweater dress, amongst other things, though she hadn't been able to wear any of them until her restraints had come off. "The viscera pink was supposed to create a romantic atmosphere."

Geralt had been directed to the 'gift shop' and found a change of clothes for himself as well--although the clothing was odd, to say the least, not at all what he was used to. The tunic was tight around his shoulders and chest, despite the softness of the cloth. At least the material of the breeches, close-woven and dark, seemed sturdy enough, if not to the same degree as his own leathers.

"Mmmm. I wonder if the rooms were infested with spectres back then, too," he mused. "Although the one in my room seems peaceable enough. Mostly stays in the smaller sleeping room, doesn't talk."

"There are advantages to the smaller rooms. Such as not having to share the space." The modern clothing went a long way to making him look more urbane, but it couldn't do much for the ruggedness of his hair and beard, nor certainly for his scars and eyes. He looked like a wolf in sheep's clothing, so to speak, and that was appealing in its own right. Not that she would hasten to tell him so.

"Have you eaten here before?" Illyana didn't wait for him to escort her to a table, instead striding right on in and choosing one tucked back where they could have the most crossover between relative privacy and strategic lines of sight should someone choose to interrupt.

He shook his head as he followed her. "No. I raided the kitchens a couple of times, went to the...cafe I was shown when I didn't do that. I'm still getting used to things. It's very odd, not having to worry about how many crowns I do or don't have." His mouth twitched briefly in appreciation for her choice of table; easy view of door from here, just in case.

She slid herself into a chair. "There's much to see and find and learn when one first arrives. I mapped most of it out as quickly as possible, to better understand this place, but I almost regretted that later. Once you've seen it all - you've seen it all. Additions and annexes are rare."

"You know," Geralt said, settling in the chair opposite hers, "this isn't actually the first time I've been in a pocket dimension. I mean, the last one was just a little different than this--" He gestured around him. "Less pink. More apple trees. Also I was dead."

"You've rehearsed this story," she decided, something wry in the words. "Good opening. Very relevant. But mark your place." She turned towards where the chef was approaching them, as unnaturally nondescript and obsequious as the other few members of the inn's staff. "What would you like for your dinner?"

"Not sure what's on offer. An inn back home, I'd probably just go for the stew or something else bland. My sense of taste is as mutated as the rest of me."

"'Bland' is always on offer here," Illyana assured him. "But you're hardly in some Dark Age backwater these days. We'll see whatever is left of your palate."

The chef didn't attend so much as lurk beside the table in a manner of neutral expectation, which judging from Illyana's manner of ignoring him save the moment she wanted to engage it was entirely typical. She turned to the figure at last, with all the absence of warmth and affection that she might give... Most people. "Two draft beers. Pad kra pow gai for both," she told it, before turning her attention back to Geralt with a glint in her eye. "Thai hot," she added.

"Sounds like Zerrikanian cuisine," he said. "Lots of tiny red peppers." He eyed the chef as the being turned away, however, and frowned a little. "That's--not a golem, is it?" Rather too human-shaped for the golems he knew, but there was something about the thing's face and reactions (or lack thereof)...

She inclined her head at the mention of many tiny red peppers, not having expected that he would be familiar with such a dish. But he was adept at avoiding her expectations, at least so far.

"Something similar, perhaps," Illyana said in regards to the chef. "I'm more inclined to think of them as thralls or homunculi, but the samples I've taken have proven evasive to study. They're clearly extensions of the Inn, but the exact nature of that relationship hasn't been determined as of yet."

"Odd." He watched the being depart - back to the kitchens, presumably - and then turned his attention back to Illyana. "I'm used to creatures who're bound to a given location, but they're not usually that corporeal."

She lifted one shoulder at him in a noncommittal shrug. "This world doesn't play by our rules," she put it simply.

"You were just beginning to tell me a story," she reminded Geralt as he turned back around. "The last pocket dimension you were in was less pink. With more apple trees. And you were dead." It had been a good opening.

He had, hadn't he? Geralt nodded. "Took a pitchfork to the chest during one of the pogroms against non-humans," he said. "Damned undignified way to go, incidentally." He raised a hand to his chest where the scars were, almost reflexively. "Woke up on the Isle of Apples with my wounds healed, thanks to one of the many sorceresses in my life." A bit of a dodge, not to mention that it had been Ciri's doing, but he wasn't going to let himself brood tonight. Just for an hour or so, he wanted to pretend.

Her gaze followed the motion of his hand, then returned to his face. "Oh? The many sorceresses in your life? Do you collect them?"

"Other way around, I think." Geralt half-shrugged. "Sorceresses in my world tend to be very... political. I kept stumbling into their business."

It was hard to imagine what political agenda he could further from inside this pocket dimension, and there was no indication that anyone had come to the Madonna Inn intentionally. Even her cynical skepticism was hard-pressed to make the immediate assumption that he was here as part of some inter-planar conspiracy of mages.

"And so you continue," Illyana confirmed after having considered what threat he might pose. It wasn't really coy. If what he said was true, he almost certainly suspected that she was a sorceress herself by now. "Completely unintentional, I'm sure, all of your stumblings into such business." ...Just because she hadn't subscribed to a conspiracy theory out of hand didn't mean she believed he was as innocent in his meddling as he made himself out to be.

"Not usually," Geralt said dryly. "I had my reasons." His mouth twisted bitterly for a moment. "I also made a useful pawn, from time to time. Skipping the gory details, none of it ever ended particularly well."

"I'm sure that you did." If he was a skilled killer who understood enough of the supernatural world to be effective - yet not enough of arcane workings to see the full scope of what he might be set to do - he had all but gift-wrapped himself to be used. "Yet you are alive," she pointed out. "They could have been less kind still."

"Came out of it with all my extremities attached and mostly functional," was the dry reply. "So yeah, I'd agree."

She studied him impassively for a long moment. "You would do it again, wouldn't you? You would willingly endanger those precious extremities if it was said that you were needed. Even knowing that it wouldn't end well."

"Depends on who was asking." And that did provoke an ache, imagining a second chance to help Ciri. "There are a number of people from home I would tell to go fuck themselves without a second thought. But yeah... there are people I'd ride into fire for."

He was being pointedly vague. Illyana didn't intend to dig after each of his secrets in earnest, though she would have admitted to her curiosity. It wasn't out of propriety nor sensitivity, so much as respecting the choice to retain personal privacy, for one, and looking forward to the potential of more to be had from him sometime later. Once his riddles were all solved, his stories all told, how much of him could still be interesting?

"You aren't a very good storyteller," she informed him. "You started and then finished practically in the same breath. How disappointing."

"Too much time on the road with no one but Roach to talk to. My horse," Geralt said, before she could ask. "Well... my horses. I called all of them Roach."

She huffed a sound that might have been generously called a laugh. There was sense in it. "The life of a witcher proved too dangerous for most horses, I gather. But you've said yourself that you weren't always alone on the road. Tell me about one of your two-legged travel companions."

He tilted his head, giving it a moment's thought. "Dandelion was probably the companion you'd think would have been the least likely," he said. "He's a bard. Actually, an Oxenfurt-trained scholar. Could have stayed there to taught, but preferred the wandering life. He's as hopeless with money as he is good with women. Writes the most ridiculous tripe, except when he doesn't, and cheats shamelessly at cards all the time."

After all his professed time spent with a string of doomed horses, she didn't doubt he might want better company from time to time. The way Geralt spoke of the man was both put-upon and fond, in its way. She'd found herself in strange enough alliances on her teams over the years. "Dandelion. Really. Was he a grown man, with such a name? And weren't your travels too dangerous for a common bard?"

She would have asked if this so-called Dandelion hadn't shared the fate of so many Roaches, but Geralt had used the present tense.

"A grown man with a very noble name that his family doesn't want him to use," Geralt said. "And yes. They were too dangerous. I did get better at keeping him out of things in recent years, or at least on the periphery..." The mess with the Temple Guard hadn't been his doing, after all. "Dandelion's not stupid by a long shot; he just has no common sense and is too brave for his own good."

Musicians and poets were generally suspect for being idiots, in Illyana's view, but intelligence and courage were qualities of value. And even though this bard may have seemed unlikely for how different he was to Geralt, she could see the appeal of his taking a travel partner with more merry humor. The white-haired man was stoic, but he had scars that had cut him deeper than talons and pitchforks. "You weren't able to teach him to fight," she speculated from there. "Did you ever try?"

"I broached the subject a few times. He usually gave me this horrified look and started babbling about his musician's hands." Geralt snorted under his breath. "Thankfully he was pretty good at talking himself out of most things."

"You could teach such skills here. There are a number of fighters that would welcome the opportunity to study a new discipline." Keeping them all busy, active, and sharp was well within Illyana's best interests. If she didn't have to sharpen them herself, so much the better.

"Not sure I'm the best teacher," Geralt said, and there was something closed-off about his expression that hadn't been there before.

Yet Geralt hadn't always felt that way, if he had offered to instruct the bard more than once. Anything to do with the particulars of the man's past seemed a conversational minefield. Not that Illyana felt especially deterred. "That sounds like the certitude of someone that has tried - and failed," the blonde suggested evenly.

Geralt was quiet for a moment, reminding himself that this was not a woman who appreciated coy ducking of her implicit questions--and really, why bother? It had happened. He was still alive, and needed to try and find a way to go on. Ignoring reality wasn't going to help with that.

"I taught my daughter everything I knew," he said abruptly, his voice far steadier than it really should have been. "She was--prodigiously gifted. In many ways. She soaked up what I could teach down to the last detail and turned it into something... dazzling. And all I actually managed to do was equip her to die."

She stared at him for a beat, face purposefully blank, but her eyes attentive. She calculated the emotional math to try and understand what that meant to him, as close as she could figure it. "You trained her to become a witcher, then," she extrapolated. "But whatever she faced, it wasn't enough to save her."

"She faced more than any human being should have had to face. She died trying to save worlds that won't ever know her name. And all the skills I taught her, all of them amounted to nothing more than helping her survive until that moment." He raised the water glass set by his plate, more to buy himself a moment - although his voice had, amazingly enough, remained impassive - than because he was thirsty. "So. Teaching and me--maybe not."

His sadness reminded her, strangely, of her brother in that moment. Piotr would have given himself to save her from Limbo (or any of his own students, for that matter) in an instant. Physically, he was huge, strong, and all but unbreakable. There were forces and powers across the worlds, however, that made sheer physical fortitude entirely useless. Forces that no amount of love nor vigilance could prevent.

It had been suffering, hatred, spiteful determination, knowledge, ability and sheer audacity that had forged her into something strong enough to come out of Limbo. Not love.

Though love had made her care enough to try living again on the earthly plane.

"All mortals will die," there was a spark in her tone that hadn't been there before. "If you did all that could be done to give your daughter her life for that much longer... Then stop punishing yourself and those around you for the inevitable, and make to move on. If you regret that you couldn't do more, if you grieve the loss of her, your reaction shouldn't be to shut down and become altogether useless. It should be to make every effort to see that it doesn't have to happen again, to someone else's child. Isn't that what she died trying to prevent?"

Oddly, he smiled. It was a tight, brief, thoroughly unamused little smile, gone as quickly as it had come. "I suppose you're right. Can't have a witcher be useless; rather defeats the point of killing so many boys to make one of us. We are meant to be things of use." It was surprisingly easy to let the cold and cynical mask they had all been taught to show to the world to come to the forefront--but then, he had been very good at it for a very long time.

The bitterness in his flash of a smile was sharp enough that she could have cut herself on it. It was a manner of expression she knew intimately.

Kitty would have empathized with him, Illyana considered. Would have shared condolences over the loss of his child, would have agreed that it was unfair, would have asked all about the girl but only if Geralt wanted to speak of her. Perhaps that was what she should have done. In retrospect, there had been inherent selfishness in saying those words to him. But she wouldn't have understood how to do that in the proper way, not even if she'd wanted to. Bitterness, anger, the armor of an impenetrable exterior - those were things she understood. Those were far more functional than despair.

"The burden of the living is the struggle of continuing to persist. You and I were each forged to be tools on other worlds, for specialized purposes we no longer serve as intended. We may as well partake in the indulgences that come with being alive and free enough to make some few choices about what to do with what's left of us." The dead made no choices at all, save a few not-entirely-stilled exceptions.

That would have been an excellent cue for the food to arrive. But it didn't, and for a moment, their cool facades reflected silence.

"...What was her name?"

“Ciri.” Geralt took another sip of his water. “She wasn’t my child by blood; witchers are sterile, because of the mutation process. There was a prophecy involved. I still don’t know what to think about it, whether it was something real or whether it became real because everyone else convinced her to believe in it.” There was a flicker of something else in his eyes, something closer to sadness. “We were linked, somehow. Drawn back to each other like lodestones any time we were parted. And if either of us were in danger, while we were apart, we’d dream about it.”

It amazed her how freely he offered that information. Perhaps because he didn't see how it could be leveraged against him here, with the girl dead. Perhaps because he felt compelled to talk about her, now that the seal on the subject had been broken. "Do you dream about her still?"

The noise that escaped him wasn’t quite a snort. Might have been, if there’d been any inkling of humor behind it. “Only every time I close my eyes. Not the same kind of dream, though. I always knew, when it was real and she was in danger.”

She wondered if that was reassuring or terrifying, as a guardian that went so far as to refer to her as his daughter.

But as she thought to ask, there came the automaton with their food on a tray. It mutely placed the steaming dishes in front of them, placed their beers beside their water glasses, and stepped back with a stiff bow.

Illyana skewered the first bite of spicy basil chicken for herself without ceremony. "Explain to me how a traveling monster hunter was given a child of prophecy to raise. Would you typically provide itinerant childcare as part of your services?"

The food had been a distraction, and a welcome one. Geralt tried it and discovered that yes, it did indeed resemble Zerrikanian cuisine, although the precise flavor of the heat was different. When the question came, he opted to answer it, almost by way of apology for his lapse into a dark mood.

"There's a custom in my world called the Law of Surprise. If you save someone's life, you can ask them to repay you with whatever first greets them when they return home, or what they have at home but did not expect. Sometimes it was something innocuous, like a new horse. Sometimes it was a child." Geralt shrugged, sampling the beer. "I always tried to avoid invoking it. Never saw the point of conscripting a child into the witcher's life. Don't know why I did, when I saved Ciri's blood father's life... I suppose I should have smelled a rat when he said that he had invoked the same law with Ciri's grandfather. Something else at work, there. I tried to give up my claim multiple times, but like I said, we kept being drawn back together. In the end I gave in."

"The point of conscripting a child into the witcher's life would be to assure the continuation of all witchers," Illyana pointed out plainly around the sudden searing taste across her tongue. He'd said that very few children survived the process that mutated them into something more than merely human - and adult bodies would be too old to weather such changes well. She doubted many parents would be enthusiastic to surrender their child to almost certain death so that they might become supernatural contract killers. "Rather fickle for law, but I can see some advantage in its ambiguity." An influential lord held to the law, for example, might find convenient ways around it without sending the witcher home empty-handed. And it allowed for a certain amount of blame to fall upon 'fate' for whomever or whatever would be taken in such a way.

"I was never tremendously keen on the idea of recruiting more fodder for the Trial of the Grasses," Geralt said. "By that time the Schools were in decline, anyway. Our mages had been killed - I suppose if we'd worked at it we could have re-started the Trials, but none of us who survived really had the heart."

She had quite intentionally ordered the food to be extra hot, but that wasn't to say that Illyana was immune to said heat. It warmed her skin with a faint flush and sheen as she ate, and her pulse beat a touch faster. It was food that reminded you with screaming urgency that you were alive, and the sips of cold beer between bites cleansed the palate for the next round rather than dismissing the spice entirely. At least it was and it did if your palate was still more rather than less comparable to human.

"Did the monsters finally object to your practice, or do witchers have other enemies?" If all witchers were in the habit of meddling with politics by way of sorceresses as Geralt had described for himself, it was no small wonder to her.

"Attrition," Geralt said with a shrug. "It only takes one bad day. And there were fewer and fewer monsters needing killing - even I've noticed the change, these last few decades."

Illyana cooled her throat with a swallow of her beer - two - then rolled her lips. "You don't sound as if you mourn the fall of your vocation."

"I don't. It's not a vocation I chose, but it was either excel or die." He paused, giving his head a quizzical shake as he speared another piece of meat. "I suppose I could have gone rogue like the Cat School witchers and started killing people for pay, but I don't think that would have been much of an improvement."

"I only murder on my own terms." She said it quite dryly. It might be a joke. Or not.

His lips twitched briefly. "Probably the best approach," he said, not quite dryly enough for it to be entirely a joke.

She speared another bite from her plate, but her attention was still focused intently on him. It was wildly refreshing to have a conversation with someone that spoke a language so much closer to her own than, say, the Parker boy.

"How are you finding it here?" Trite, yes. But she found that she was interested in his observations regardless.

"Quiet? The people seem well-intentioned." Perhaps too much so, and Geralt frowned a little, shifting slightly in his chair. "Not used to being treated this well, to be honest. I keep waiting for the masks to drop."

"It would seem that our unseen captors are patient in providing any torment they might intend. Perhaps this whole affair is merely an experiment, a microcosm of a world - a god with an ant farm. Those that live here have petty dramas and squabbles, but all seem to appreciate the value of overall peaceful coexistence." She did think about it, from time to time. What it might take to set them all against one another. How long their little community would last under such conditions.

"There's something that might interest you to know," she told him after a moment and another bite of her meal, looking at Geralt thoughtfully. He may have heard it already, but if not... "Regarding the worlds we've been removed from. You have departed your world, but your presence here represents a bifurcation, not an extraction. Another version of yourself remains in your stead there."

"...huh." His frown deepened as he thought about that. "I... think I'm sorry to hear that." Although she'd said nothing about the other Geralt being alive, just 'remaining'. Which could mean dead in the Bog, he supposed.

She tipped one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "Good, bad, or otherwise, that seems to be the way of things. Some residents come from worlds shared with others, and they have reported no awareness that there was any change in those that were said to have arrived here before them." It may make a difference, to him. If he thought often of his daughter, or other things left unfinished.

That was a jarring thought. “Mmmm. Thanks for the warning.” Although there was no reason to think that anyone from his world would wind up here, he supposed. Just that it was possible.

"The worst threat to your health in the meanwhile is boredom," she suggested from behind the rim of her glass.