bestdressed | (geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

(geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

Geralt of Rivia,
I write to you with utmost urgency, and so will not waste time with pleasantries. Witchers care little for smalltalk anyway, or so I hear. The kingdom of Temeria once again has need of a witcher, and none but you will do.

Some unknown creature has slaughtered a local lord and the entirety of his entourage of knights and servants on the road near the capital, and the squadron which was sent out by the king to find and kill the beast has not returned after nearly a week. One must assume they have met the same fate. The monster left prints of remarkable size in the ground near the site of the first attack, so it would belie that it likely did not take the travelers by surprise. But it is strange that so many of its victims appear to have died without so much as drawing their weapons.

The king is understandably cautious of mysterious and cursed creatures, considering his history. I request that you travel to Vizima with all haste, before more lives are lost. There I will meet with you to discuss the situation, as well as the matter of your payment. Be cautious of the southern road.

Yours,
Dorian Pavus, Magical Advisor to King Foltest of Temeria

-

It has been nearly two weeks since Dorian dispatched the letter by raven, and in that time, the road from Maribor to Vizima has become nigh impassable. Warnings have been issued to take a different route when approaching the capital from the south, but even so, there have been more victims. It is, therefore, a relief to be informed by a runner of the awaited arrival of the witcher he had sent for.

Of course, this is not the only reason Dorian's heart pounds as he pulls a heavy, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders and leather gloves onto his hands as he hurries to meet the witcher by the front gate. In fact, it hardly even comes close. The problem of the unknown monster no doubt requires the attention of a professional, it's true; but that it be Geralt of Rivia specifically is entirely Dorian's design. There is only one reason that Dorian is grateful to have ever set foot in the kingdom of Temeria: it is here that he has finally learned the identity of the man he's been aching to know all his life.

That he is a witcher comes as no surprise. Dorian determined as much himself years ago, given the rate of injury and recovery, and the severity of the wounds that he has apparently lived through. But that he would happen to be the witcher known for lifting the curse on Foltest's daughter five years past--Ada; a sweet girl, if still a bit skittish at times--had been a shock. Dorian had known from the moment the story was related to him; he remembers well the pain of teeth ripping into the tender skin between his neck and shoulder. And so he finally had a name for the man connected to the unseen hurts that have plagued him all his life--pain he's come to both resent and adore. (Though if he's being entirely honest with himself, it's more the latter, if only because it means he exists somewhere: someone just for him. A man who, if soulmates work for sorcerers the same way they do everyone else, is meant to love him.)

"Geralt of Rivia?"

Clutching his cloak around his shoulders, Dorian speaks the name aloud across the quiet courtyard, a note of hopeful anticipation in the inflection of his voice. Several yards away, a man stands beside his horse, armored and broad-shouldered with a shock of white hair and a pair of swords on his back, facing away from Dorian. Already, Dorian knows it must be him, as he feels an ebbing of the pain he has lived with for decades. It fades more with each passing moment, the dull aches and strains and old, smarting hurts that accompany years spent in the dangerous monster-hunting trade. Dorian knows them intimately; knows this man intimately.

He could trace the scars on his body from memory, though he has never seen his face.

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"I understand that," Dorian huffs. "And I trust that you'll do your job well. I'm merely escorting you there."

Most clients, he suspects, probably just dangle a bag of coin and tell their witcher to hop to it. Perhaps with anyone else, Dorian would be much the same, reluctant to leave the insulated warmth of his study, let alone the castle or the city itself. But as fate would have it, Geralt is his...Geralt is his, and he doesn't want to leave him so soon after they'd finally met.

They step outside again, and Dorian winces on instinct. He knows very well how the cold can irritate some of Geralt's older injuries--yet he doesn't feel any of the expected twinge or ache. Strange, after living with it for so long. Almost like missing a part of himself, though it had never been his.

"For daylight, you'll have to wait until the morning," he says, fetching his leatheer gloves from a pocket and slipping them on. "I've had a room made up for you here, should you need to use it." A bit of wishful thinking, perhaps.

Geralt nods to acknowledge the kindness of a room. He's slept in a barn with Roach before and in all manner of climates outside, so a bed is always appreciated.

"Might take more than a day," he admits. "Just depends on what I can find."

It will also depend on what he might need to prepare. He doesn't think he has any more relict oil, if it is a fiend. When they get to the stable, Roach is saddled up again and there's another horse, he assumes Dorian's, standing placidly nearby.

"How long have you been at court?"

Dorian greets his horse with an idle pat on the nose, apologizing quietly for taking her out in this weather before double-checking her straps and girth and mounting up. He settles into the saddle, arranging his long cloak around him, as he answers Geralt's question.

"A little less than a year in Temeria. I was in Aedirn before for nearly a decade. That was my first appointment." Though he looks barely over thirty, Dorian talks about the passing of a decade quite casually. Such is the way for sorcerers, of course, long-lived as they are. He must imagine it's the same for witchers. He smiles, showing a hint of white teeth. "You've probably guessed that I'm no Nordling."

If Dorian is indeed part of the Brotherhood, hearing him discuss a decade as if it's nothing comes as no surprise. It's one of the small things witchers have in common with proper magic users like mages. Geralt's age is harder to guess at: there are lines on his face, his hair and beard are fully white. But he doesn't seem old.

Geralt mounts up as he listens. Aedirn to Temeria would be considered, by some, to be a promotion. Foltest wields considerably more influence, especially with Redania to the north and Nilfgaard to the south.

"Offeri?" he guesses. He's traveled a lot.

Dorian smiles, clearly pleased by Geralt's guess. "Just so. Born, raised, and educated there--for the part of my education that was most worthwhile, at least. Just don't tell the instructors at Ban Ard I said so." He chuckles, low and mirthful, as he brings Geralt in on the joke with the bright, friendly focus of his gaze and the inviting curl of his lips.

"I've lived in the north for more than twenty years now," he explains as they set out. The main portcullis begins to rise to let them through. "But I don't think I'll ever be used to the cold."

"I'm Nordling through and through." At least, as far as he knows. Geralt doesn't remember much before Kaer Morhen, so wherever he was born doesn't really matter. He also doesn't really live anywhere steady, save when he spends winters back in Kaer Morhen with the handful of other witchers left in the school.

He's also fairly certain that Dorian is flirting with him.

"Will you try to get another posting?" he asks, vaguely curious. He isn't entirely sure how the politics of the Brotherhood work, only that they as an organization are keen in keeping their hands in politics at large. Thus, the assigning of advisors.

"Cold's not so bad if you know how to get around it."

There is, the slightest chance, that he is flirting back. The difference being that Geralt lacks the affect to sound warm or friendly, and he doesn't make expressions the way most people do, so there's no coy glance or suggestive smirk. Only a hint of warmth in his amber eyes, a faint up-turn of his mouth.

"You certainly look it," Dorian laughs, though he makes it perfectly clear with the way his gaze lingers that this isn't an issue for him.

In his younger years spent living in his homeland, Dorian never would have imagined a man like Geralt as his ideal. He tended more for whiskey brown skin, soulful dark eyes, and sleek black curls. But he's changed his perspective some since moving north. Expanded his horizons, one could say.

"In time, perhaps. I'll stay in Temeria for as long as I can bear to. It's an advantageous assignment." He's done an excellent job of filling large shoes in both of his postings; he'd directly followed the rather spectacular fallout that was Yennefer of Vengerberg's abandonment of court in Aedirn, and in Temeria, Triss Merigold had held his position last. "Only Redania or Cintra would be better." He gives a half smile, vague and helpless as a shrug. Anyone with any idea about the Brotherhood's politics knows how impossible gaining either of those postings would be--Cintra's not taken on an advisor from the Brotherhood in years, and Philippa Eilhart has had the ear of King Vizimir in Redania for decades.

They ride on, and Dorian turns his attention to the road--so much so that he nearly misses the slight curve of Geralt's lips as he makes his own joke. Nearly. Is he--flirting back? Even the possibility makes Dorian light up.

"Oh?" He inquires. The word is half a purr. "And what would be your suggestion, witcher?"

Geralt meets Dorian's gaze and holds it long enough that it could be called suggestive. And then, flat as ever, he says:

"A fire."

There's the faintest tick at the corner of his mouth, the suggestion of a smirk. If Dorian wants to flirt, he'll have to deal with the witcher's wildfire-dry sense of humor, too. Or just find ways to keep him from talking.

Well, that decides it. Whatever he may have felt over the last--sixty?--years of his life, this is something he can't possibly overlook. The little quirk at the corner of his lips--the witcher actually thinks he's being funny.

"Brilliant. Really," Dorian drawls. All right. Perhaps it's a little funny. He'll admit it privately just as soon as he's finished being offended. "I can still turn around and make you do this alone, you know," he grouses.

"You're the one that offered to be a guide," he said with a dry smile. Geralt clearly thinks he's funny, and he's known enough sorceresses that don't share his sense of humor, so why not a sorcerer?

Still. There's something about Dorian Pavus in particular. Something he can't quite place. It isn't mere attraction; it feels almost like fate.

Ridiculous.

Geralt's attention shifts and any mirth there might have been vanishes as he looks around. He can smell blood - old blood, but blood all the same.

"We're near something."

The warmth in Geralt's expression fades quickly as he looks away, and Dorian is left wondering at the cause. Surely he can't sense anything yet?

"Near?" Dorian asks, frowning. "The site of the first attack is still some way ahead." The spot is near a rocky outcrop, little more than a steep hill near the road. There are still overturned carts and blood soaked into the ground, but it's all weeks old by now. But how does Geralt know?

"Old blood," he answers and absently taps the side of his nose. "Some rot from whatever's not been eaten or removed. Don't hear any necrophages but that doesn't mean they aren't there."

If they're sleeping or otherwise not moving, it will take him longer to notice them. Still, he's paying intense attention now, eyes ahead as they make their way toward the outcrop.

Geralt taps his nose. Does that mean what he thinks it means? He can smell it, even from here? Dorian's heard plenty about the superhuman abilities of witchers. He'd done his research and more when he'd begun to suspect that the man connected to him might be one. But he never could have imagined that their senses would be quite as keen as this. If he can smell old blood this far away, then it's impossible not to wonder about other things. What does he smell like, for instance?

Best not to think about it too much for now, he decides. Especially as they really are coming up on their destination now. The wind whips through the trees, an icy chill that reaches right through Dorian's cloak. He draws a little lower in his saddle, shivering, as he indicates the shadow of broken carriages and carts ahead in the slowly waning light.

"There. This was nearly three weeks ago now. The corpses have all been disposed of."

Geralt dismounts as soon as they're close enough and lets Roach do what she will. Three weeks on, weather or not, Geralt catches the rancid scent of lingering blood and rot.

"Bodies were recovered without incident?" he asks as he looks around. He studies the carts, examines the damage to determine if it was front beast or accident as horses and men panicked. He crouches down and pulls a tiny tuft of hair from a piece of split wood.

"No one reported seeing anything?"

Dorian doesn't dismount, but he reins his horse in close to where Geralt begins to look around. He's been to this area once before, leading a small cadre of soldiers to recover the bodies initially. "A ghoul or two," he shrugs. "Nothing that couldn't be easily disposed of."

It's interesting to watch Geralt work, actually. He uncovers things that Dorian and his team hadn't even bothered to look for, intent as they were on getting in and out with the corpses as quickly as possible.

"There was no one to report back. They were all killed."

"But you came to collect bodies," he reminds as he examines a spot where blood had soaked the ground. The dirt was still a different color, scuffed by necrophages looking for a meal. Geralt stands up slowly and drops the tuft of fur.

"Don't still have them, do you?"

The bodies. He's asking about the weeks-old bodies. He knows they've probably been given funerary rites by now or otherwise disposed of, but it's worth asking.

"We didn't see any sign of the creature then." Dorian's horse is nervous in this area, and she stamps at the ground, shying away from the scent of old blood and death. Dorian frims his grip on the reins and pats the side of her neck, but doesn't let her back away. He's too intrigued by Geralt's process. What can he really hope to find here?

Surprise flickers visibly across Dorian's face. What would Geralt hope to do with corpses that long dead? "They've been cremated," he says, in the sort of flat tone that implies it should be obvious. "They weren't in any fit state for preservation. Or anything else, really."

As that doesn't give Geralt much to go on, he adds, "I saw them myself. Any that weren't in full plate were torn to shreds or crushed. There were tracks of some sort, too, the last time I was here, but nothing that seemed familiar to me. The attack occurred after several days of rain. The ground was muddy, and one of the wagons was stuck. I would guess that they got caught out while trying to free it."

Geralt nods absently and slowly moves closer to Dorian and his mare. He makes a small sign in the air. For a second, there's a faint glow around the mare's head; when the light fades, she's docile and calm beneath Dorian's hands.

The witcher strokes a hand over her velvety nose.

"I know," he murmurs to the horse. "Roach always takes some breaking in, too."

Torn to shreds, crushed, tracks. He moves away to start looking for said tracks, and when he picks them up, he crouches down again to examine them. Geralt stands again and follows them for a few paces, but stops short of approaching the woods.

Seeming to have made up his mind about something, he returns to Roach and mount up again.

"Need to prepare some things. I'll come back out tomorrow."

Dorian thinks he knows what Geralt does to his horse; one of the witcher signs, magic so minor it can barely be classified as such. But she calms instantly, and he's so gentle with her; it's more than a little endearing, actually, the way he speaks to her. Northerners don't tend to have quite the same appreciation for their horses as Ofieri. It's nice to see.

He holds his tongue as Geralt investigates further, somehow finding the weeks-old tracks. Even knowing where they'd been, they aren't apparent to Dorian any longer, but Geralt picks up the trail quickly. It's remarkable.

"That seems best," Dorian agrees as Geralt swings back up into the saddle. The sun is sinking swiftly. "What do you need?"

"Need to make an oil. Check the decoctions I've got with me. I've got the supplies, just need a safe place to brew it all."

If worst comes, he can work in the courtyard. He'd rather be somewhere he won't be bothered by stable boys and guardsmen. Geralt turns them back down the road toward Vizima.

"I can work outside if need be. As long as the brew won't be bothered."

"Outside?" Dorian sounds horrified by the mere suggestion. "Nonsense. You'll use my lab. No one will bother you there."

If they make good time, they can probably be within city limits again by nightfall. The trees around them look so much more ominous at dusk now, knowing that something huge and dangerous lurks nearby.

"Well," Dorian corrects himself, "I might bother you a bit. I'm rather curious about witcher oils and decoctions."

Geralt won't turn down the offer. Having a mage hovering is less likely to end in tragedy and having somewhere indoors to make what he needs would, he admits, be considerably easier than doing it outdoors over a campfire.

"You're free to ask. As long as you don't try to touch or imbibe anything."

He would feel bad if he managed to kill Foltest's advisor.

"Do I truly seem so moronic?" Dorian says archly, playing at offense. "I only want to watch. Alchemy's an interest of mine as well, naturally." Being a mage, that's fairly obvious.

The two of them ride side by side on the return to Vizima, and Dorian finds it rather comfortable. Geralt is entirely new to him still, but he doesn't feel like a stranger. Truly, it feels like he's known him for a long time--and in a way, he has. There are parts of Geralt, he would wager, that he knows better than anyone.

It is dark by the time they pass the castle gates, and Dorian is frozen to his very bones. He's visibly stiff as he dismounts, and clutches his cloak close about him as he hands his horse off to a stablehand.

"I could show you to your room first," Dorian offers, "but something tell me that you would rather get straight to work."

"I would prefer to work," he agrees. He reluctantly leaves Roach with the stable hand after grabbing his saddle bags - all of them this time. "Should get inside before you freeze solid."

He nods toward the door they'd come through on their way out and follows Dorian once he heads inside. Geralt pays attention this time to the twists and turns they take.

"You do a lot of alchemy for Foltest?"

Geralt is right, of course. Dorian doesn't take his cloak off until they're well inside, and some ways past a first huge fireplace.

"I do as much as he requires." Given Dorian's dismissive tone, it isn't much. "For the most part, I do it for myself. I have plenty of research of my own, and thankfully both the time and the resources to conduct it."

He leads Geralt back to his study, where a door on the opposite side of the room leads to a larger, though far less comfortable space. This is where Dorian does his practical work, clearly. Equipment for alchemy and more innately magical crafts--the distinctly Ofieri practice of runewriting, for one--are laid out across various benches, with open books and half scribbled on papers scattered throughout. It isn't organized, but it's clean, at least, as a magical workroom should be.

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