bestdressed | blood & wine (geralt)

blood & wine (geralt)

A summer night in Antiva City is nearly as warm and fragrant as a spring evening in Minrathous. Standing in the midst of the villa's outdoor garden terrace surrounded by night blooming flowers and the press of silk-clad bodies and the scent of free-flowing wine, with the sea breeze off the Rialto Bay, Dorian is reminded enough of home so as to feel a pang of longing without the trappings of actually being in Tevinter. Antivan soirees have the potential to turn out as dangerous as Tevinter ones, but rarely do. The constant warring of the twelve merchant princes has nothing on the daily infighting and petty one-upsmanship of the Magisterium. But Antiva does have the better assassins, Dorian will give them that.

Tonight, however, he's being used as little more than a convenient decorator and a topic of conversation. The magical lights twinkling in the trees around the gardens are his doing, and the guests simply can't stop asking his benefactor how his court was assigned an altus mage of Tevinter. The truth is, of course, that his position here has very little to do with being officially appointed by any organization of mages or sorcerers, and more with being hired for his skills in return for a comfortable life away from the Imperium and the space and funds with which to do his magical research. It stings a little, of course, having to answer to Adrian Mercurio, a merchant prince and therefore an upjumped businessman, but at least no one here is trying to drag him back to his father, and absolutely no one cares who he sleeps with beyond idle gossip. The Antivans are a passionate people, and restrict little when it comes to sex or romance.

A peacock among a crowd of other exotic birds, Dorian still stands out. He is unapologetically Tevinter in the way he dresses and styles himself, from the kohl lining his eyes and gold dust on his lids to the scent he wears (cloves and orange blossom oil dabbed on his pulse points) to his robes, ivory linen with designs of feathers and serpents in spun gold, a high collar and an entirely bare left arm from the shoulder down. On his feet are soft sandals rather than heavy boots in deference to the weather, and his long fingers are decorated with jeweled rings. The picture of Tevinter decadence, and entirely out of place among the brightly dyed silken doublets and puffed sleeves and plumed hats and heavy necklaces preferred by the Antivans.

He does only the requisite socializing, and regrettably keeps his drinking to a single glass of wine. The purpose of this soiree is not, after all, merely to celebrate the success of recent business ventures, or to network, or even to display Mercurio's wealth. It's to reveal (and to slay) a monster in their midst, and it is apparently Dorian's purpose to facilitate this with the witcher they've hired, for whom he keeps a careful eye. It is, of course, nearly impossible not to be mildly distracted by thoughts of the last witcher he'd encountered, over a year ago now. That had been a pleasant meeting. Dorian isn't certain whether he's relieved or disappointed that Mercurio had specifically elected not to hire Geralt of Rivia; he wanted a monster slayer, he said, not a butcher. But surely there are so many other witchers on both the northern and southern continents that the chances that Geralt would answer this particular ad were slim anyway.

Which is why he freezes when he looks across the gathering and meets a pair of familiar yellow eyes by the trellis archway leading from the gardens to the main house

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Geralt is learning that being around Dorian is like being inside city-limits; his medallion seems to be constantly shivering against his chest. The man uses magic for everything. And not that Geralt spends enough general time in the company of mages-- he's never wanted to until now, that is sure-- but he feels that it's still a fair assessment considering what Dorian has told him. At least the candles hadn't lit green before orange.

Necromancy.

Shaking his head at the though, Geralt follows the man down the hall, happy to leave the pressure of the magic behind him. He shrugs his shoulders slightly as if discarding a jacket. Through the corridors and stairwells they go-- Dorian has clearly been here long enough to know the layout of the villa, Geralt is glad to find out. He wonders if Mercurio could go through the servant's routes with such surety. The scant handful of people that they see on their way all wear the livery of the house and most are carrying sheets or food stuffs; after a glance, they are ignored. The sounds of the party are a little jarring when they step outside, especially after what had happened in Dorian's room, but Geralt focuses and follows, ducking into the thick foliage as the mage does, finally taking a knee in a spot that gives him a good view of the revelry below: including Mercurio and his wife. Finally, for a moment, he gives his attention back to Dorian.

"Good." His voice is as low as Dorian's, though without a witcher's senses it might just sound like a whisper of thunder. "Point her out when they come in and we will see." There's a strange thought, that maybe she's just a woman. That's not the strangeness; it's the relief that the job would be over, were that the case. No killing, no money-- just Dorian.

Dorian nods his confirmation. Kneeling on the wet mossy earth in his party clothes has surely ruined them. He can feel the dampness seeping in at his knees, dirt and mud no doubt staining the white linen irreparably. "This is the end for my robes," he grumbles softly, mostly because he feels he should. In truth he's far less irate than he might normally be. Because he can't regret this, any of it. He looks at Geralt, noting how the warm light from below casts across his pale face, the way it turns his eyes to bright, shining gold. He lingers on him too long, the space of more than one deep breath, before he wrests his gaze away and focuses on the faces below instead.

He concentrates on finding something familiar. Mercurio and his wife are somewhere to start, and looking at them returns some degree of focus to him. From there he flits face to face, guest to guest, from one jewel-toned velveteen dress to the next. The woman he seeks is tall and thin, almost angular, dark chestnut hair and pale skin, a thin face with prominent cheekbones; pretty, but sharp.

It's good that they hadn't attempted to return to the party, because he finds her far more quickly than he'd expected to. A chill moves through him when he recognizes Anetta, a disorienting lurch of surprise. He'd been looking for her, but hadn't expected to actually find her. Not yet.

"Geralt, she's already here," he whispers urgently. "She must have arrived while we were--" Otherwise occupied. No need to expand on that. He swallows--too loud with a suddenly dry throat--then continues with something more helpful. "Beside the fountain, the tall woman with dark hair dressed in emerald green. The man beside her in gold is Valentin, Mercurio's brother." The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder, she nearly as tall as her husband. She's silent while he talks with another man, holding a glass of wine in her hand like a prop rather than drinking it.

Despite liking Dorian's robes far more than he's ever liked a doublet of Jaskier's, Geralt is well-versed at ignoring concern over dirtied garments. When Dorian's focus turns to the crowd to match his own he feels the mage's intention as it settles-- just as he feels the subtle reaction a moment later when those grey eyes find something in particular. Someone. Muscles tense, his breath stops... whoever Anetta is, monster or otherwise, her impression on Dorian is a visceral one. Geralt spares a glance to the man at his side; his bare arm stands with gooseflesh. The witcher's fingers raise an inch from the damp earth and then fall back. He doesn't need to reassure the mage. He looks to where he's pointed.

Between the two of them, it's far easier to find Anetta. Next to her pale beauty, haloed by the wreath of her almost-blue hair, Valentin is wan and forgettable. She's not even looking up in their direction and Geralt can feel something tighten in his belly as she smiles at the man her husband speaks to, the expression full of charm and something else, a sort of craving. The man blinks at her and smiles back. "Not an alpor," he murmurs to himself. The tips of her bare ears are rounded. "Shit. I don't know." From here Geralt certainly could say that something about the woman is off, and that he has learned to trust his gut, but his gut is not conclusive evidence.

"Best way to know would be to get silver near her. How do we get her alone?"

Watching Geralt watching his target is a unique experience. From what he knows of bruxas thanks to his own research and Geralt's description earlier, he might be able to hazard a guess as to what he's looking for. But clearly it's difficult to judge from this distance, even for a witcher. Dorian's brow furrows at the hard uncertainty in Geralt's voice. How do they get her alone? A fine question.

"She's hardly ever away from Valentin," he sighs. "But surely something could force her to separate. A threat? A potential victim? A mysterious note? Come to the upper terrace, you are in danger. That should work out well." He speaks with obvious sarcasm, but now that he's said it aloud the suggestion may have some merit. Curiously he glances from Geralt to Anetta, who is laughing for all intents and purposes like any other woman.

"Have you ever had a creature like this go peacefully?" He asks. "After being discovered?" Dorian shifts, bracing a hand against the garden wall separating the two of them from the drop onto the lower level. He looks to Geralt with bright, keen eyes. "Or is that not worthwhile, assuming they'll simply..." He waves his other hand, a swish of his wrist both vague and dismissive. "Do the same thing again somewhere else?"

There is good reason why just looking at a bruxa gives little in the way of tangible, monstrous proof, of course; if Anetta spent more of her time resembling a sleek, large bat and less a beautiful woman she'd certainly be easier to spot but she'd hardly have managed to get a ring for her finger and a family with which to make a nest. Unfortunately not even his medallion will help him in this case; vampires have a natural ability to shield themselves from magical detection-- which means silver, yes, or to try and part her from her source of food. One is certainly more subtle than the other but for now he says nothing about Valentin's probable and eventual involvement.

Geralt snorts quietly for Dorian's sarcasm but doesn't turn his attention from the woman below them on the patio, watching how she laughs with her chin down and her eyes open, until the mage asks his set of questions with moral implications. Geralt lets his eyes fall to the grass and then raises them to Dorian slowly. He wonders if the man asks out of genuine curiosity or because of the witcher's reputation-- certainly the same that had kept his name from the Antivian contract originally.

"There are many types of vampires--" that Geralt begins to decide there is perhaps exactly the type of flag that Mercurio had considered when penning his request, "--and they've all adapted since the Conjunction." Killing anything with intelligence is always a tightrope's walk and while bruxae are generally hardly better than feral, out of all of the creatures that prey upon people, vampires have changed the most based on their association with humans. So could this bruxa not have evolved enough to fit in amongst these jumped up caravan smugglers? He imagines that it's possible. "Or," he says with a flattening of lips, "you have a higher vampire and Mercurio will just have to get used to his new sister-in-law's strange drinking habits."

That's a prospect that has Dorian's lips curling with a softly smothered bark of a laugh. "Wouldn't that be something?" he muses. "Perhaps Mercurio should have left well enough alone. Under her supervision, Valentin's pet vineyard is finally turning a profit. She's intelligent, dresses smartly, and keeps her husband from embarrassing himself at more extraneous social gatherings than he should be attending. Really, a little blood drinking and hypnotism should be a small price to pay for such a helpful addition to the family."

Perhaps now isn't the time for lighthearted joking--no, it certainly isn't--but turning to humor and mockery in serious situations is a Dorian Pavus staple. Still, his mind is working all the while toward a real solution. A feeling of danger--yes, he can produce that artificially, and very effectively.

"I can cast a spell," he ventures, "that is likely to make her break away from everyone else. But I can't control where she goes or what she chooses to do. If we need to get silver near her, we'll have to pursue that dependent upon how she reacts."

If Anetta were a higher vampire, the concept of an Antivian nest in a merchling family is a very different concept and one that makes so much sense that Geralt is surprised it hasn't happened before. He raises his eyebrows in response to Dorian's joke as if to imply that the levity is only misplaced in the fact that his words are appropriate enough. Geralt has met a few higher vampires whose company he actually thoroughly enjoys. If that were the case it would only be Mercurio's personal biases holding him back from what would likely be a very profitable relationship, though the family fortune would, eventually, be claimed by her in a very long-term way. Would that prove a legal bump for any children that Mercurio may have? Geralt doesn't know-- or rightfully give a damn-- how the princes pass on their legacies.

Geralt considers, turning to look back through the railing and down at the party. "Have you ever seen her reflection?" It's almost an idle question as he studies the luminescent woman again. She stands just far enough from the fountain as to miss the surface of the water-- coincidence or luck? He realizes that he hadn't really answered Dorian's question about letting a bruxa go. He rubs his chin with the back of his hand. "And, no," he offers belatedly, on the heels of his question. "If it is a bruxa, then she won't go... peacefully." He sighs. "So long as your spell doesn't harm her, what will it do?" To have her parted from Valentin would be a good place to start. It would give them time if nothing else.

Dorian too glances at the nearby fountain as though it might hold the answer to Geralt's question. It doesn't. "No. Never. Though I wasn't really looking for it before now." Still, there are any number of places in which one might normally see someone else's reflection in passing: polished tableware, a marble floor, a mirrored vase. He's spoken with Anetta at dinner, in the villa's foyer, and at a number of other gatherings. Yet he hasn't seen anything of the sort.

"She won't be harmed," he explains. "It's a more concentrated version of the spell I described earlier. It will effect her alone and levy a specific fear. If it works on the way it does on humans, she'll feel suddenly suspicious of large crowds and seek to isolate herself as quickly as possible." His fingers drum against the low wall in front of him. "The trouble is that I have no idea where she'll go."

There are only two of them and now they have parted themselves quite a bit from the party. Spells never work as well on vampires of any kind due to their natures but if it were possible for Dorian's spell to spark something there could possibly be a worse-case scenario of Anetta responding to the fear with aggression. Geralt shakes his head. "The trouble might be that suddenly there's a huge, fear-driven bat in the middle of Mercurio's party," he responds. "I'm relatively sure that won't happen, but." But he doesn't like even an outside chance of putting anyone in danger.

"Which means that we include Valentin. Or." Geralt turns his gaze back to Dorian. He might not know much about his companion but he does understand some of his control and strength with magic, enough, certainly, to know that the man does not need protection-- no matter how much the strange feeling that curls into the pit of his stomach demands otherwise. His yellow eyes are steady on the man at his side. "Or we use live bait." Either of the new suggestions puts Dorian closer to the line of fire; it is just a matter of degrees. He is open to other possibilities.

Confident as Dorian is in his own magic, he doesn't contradict Geralt. He's never used this spell on a vampire, so he can't be certain of the result. There's a part of him that very much wants to try it just to see the result. He is a magical researcher. But he also isn't about to put everyone below in danger because he wants to prove a theory. He isn't that kind of sorcerer.

"You're the witcher," he says softly, and meets Geralt's eyes with a smile, carelessly fond. "I'll defer to your expertise. But I would make excellent bait. As you well know, I'm incredibly appealing." Regardless of the situation, his capacity for playful flirtation hasn't diminished in the least. With slightly more weight he asks, "How can I help?"

Geralt is glad that Dorian is not that kind of mage.

The weighted question is neatly sidestepped for just a moment as Geralt moves past it and suddenly Dorian is hemmed back against the tree behind him, one of Geralt's palms just above his shoulder against bark and his knee planted against the man's hip. The witcher is a breath away from lips, hanging there. "I do know," he says, a quiet, charged rumble between them. There is a fight going on inside of himself because his intention in moving was to kiss Dorian but remembering himself before that happened, he settled for words. They don't feel like enough. Now it's awkward.

Geralt pulls away, slowly, body first and then eyes. "Will anyone look askance at you if you walk into the party with your staff?" Fingers push into one of the small pouches at his belt and pull out a small circular trinket that glows in the fairy lights in the trees-- a coin the exact size of a gold crown, though lighter since it is cast entirely in silver. It is held out for Dorian to take. His pulse begins to even out again. "It will be easier to use this than to try and trick her into stepping somewhere to reveal her reflection. Touch her with it, hand it to her... if she's a bruxa she'll react to it, though it might be subtle. I'll be watching. Then-- I think, considering your position here with the court, it would be easier to move Valentin. Anetta will come as well." Geralt could follow without being seen.

It would be untrue to say that this is the first time Dorian has been crowded against a tree by a man in a quiet, secluded garden while the party they're attending goes on without them. But it is the most exciting of those instances by far, even if no one's trousers are undone, and Geralt does little more than loom close. Still, meeting those catlike eyes in such proximity does something to Dorian. The suddenness of it too steals his breath, and he feels the warm air of Geralt's quiet words against his lips.

Weak to temptation, he might have drawn Geralt into a kiss himself. But he hesitates a moment too long, and Geralt eases away, like a serpent cautiously recoiling. Dorian pushes himself away from the tree behind him, breathing in deeply. Loam and overripe fruit. Geralt had told him once that he smelled like that. It isn't an unpleasant scent, though more natural than he would prefer.

"A mage like myself can carry his staff where he wishes. What they'll look askance at is the mud on my robes. But even that isn't inexplicable." He accepts the silver coin from Geralt, though his fingers linger against his palm. "I can do that, Geralt. Just stay close. I'm not certain what sort of reaction to look for."

The fingers moving slow against his palm feel like they must surely be in mid-cast with the way Geralt's nerves tingle from the contact, but his medallion is still. That the witcher's slow exhale mirrors the inhale from the mage is unconscious. "Something reactive." It's hard to explain it clearly; it's more that he'd seen such a visceral obfuscation often enough to know and of course Dorian would lack that experience. "Don't worry. I'll be watching." And if the Bruxa should react poorly anyway? Geralt doubts that it will happen-- such exposure when there's another choice-- but there is a very small part of his brain that accounts for the possibility and accepts what he knows will be the consequence. He will bring the fight here to protect Dorian. These people don't matter less, but they do matter less to him.

It is unnerving, the simple acceptance of a concept so alien to what his life has been up until now. Like the coin left in Dorian's fingers that feeling is a small, cold thing, quick to catch the light. Better to tuck it away and deal with it only as necessary.

"Can you--" Geralt wets his lips. He dislikes anyone being in his head but he understands the efficiency of such magic-- still, the question sits heavy on his tongue. Are Necromancers even taught telepathy? "Do you have a way we can speak when we're at a distance?"

Coin in hand, Dorian withdraws his fingers. A current follows, like the sizzling remnants of a storm spell. He feels the brush of Geralt's rougher hands still. "I'm not worried," he assures, closing his fist around the coin hard enough to feel its edges dig into his palm. "Quite confident, in fact."

Still, it's reassuring to know that Geralt is invested in keeping him from harm. Having someone reliable at one's back can't be taken for granted, especially in the capital city of the country that prides itself on housing the most infamous guild of assassins in Thedas. He realizes how certain he is that he can count on Geralt's help should he need it. Which brings him to the crux of the matter.

"I can and do, naturally." And the prospect of doing so is actually rather exciting. He doesn't have much occasion to use telepathy. His attention flits from the flash of Geralt's tongue over his lips to the almost luminescent pair of yellow eyes trained on him. "You're prepared to trust me with that sort of magic?"

Edited (why, formatting, why) 2020-04-30 15:33 (UTC)

"I would rather not risk--" you "--the alternative." He's not sure that the less obvious answer doesn't still make him a fool, but there it is. Yes, he trusts Dorian. Should he?

He supposes that is the real question, the answer to which they will soon learn together.

Geralt has had mages use him before and has lived to tell the tale. He doesn't believe and doesn't want to believe that this will be one of those times but there is a part of tonight and meeting Dorian again that is so outside his range of understanding as to be relegated to instinct alone. He watches the storm of Dorian's eyes watch him. "Please don't make me regret it," he adds, voice low and far, far too crowded with something he doesn't quite have a name for.

Specific movement from below catches attention only because it is born of a lifetime and Geralt peels away from the mage's gaze with a reluctance that is written all over his face before he can push it back. Anetta and Valentin are moving, slowly. He pulls food from a tray, she returns her wine to another. From this angle Geralt can see that it is still full. He turns back to Dorian. "Go."

More than anything else, what roots Dorian to the spot is that single word: please. He hesitates as he considers it. Not merely a desire not to be used, it is more specifically a hope that Dorian in particular will prove worthy of trust. Strange that this is what should make heat rush to his face and his breath a little shorter. He wants so badly to reassure Geralt, to tell him that he would never seek to harm anyone this way, least of all him. That he would never seek to harm him at all.

But no matter how oddly certain he is of that, he is well aware that the only way to prove this is by doing. So he doesn't answer with anything more than a nod. Unstrapping his staff from his back, he uses it to get to his feet, crouching for a moment before ducking beneath the branches. The foliage is thick enough that he loses sight of Geralt long before he steps onto the path again.

A silent command causes the focus crystal on his staff to give off a soft white light, like a miniature reflection of the moon hanging high overhead. Before he gets too far away, he preforms the spell to link their minds. He speaks aloud under his breath, and without his usual flair. Even spoken quietly, the words resonate with power. It's dizzying at first as he is suddenly forced to sort through a second person's thoughts in addition to his own. He breathes in the fragrant garden air slowly and clutches his staff as the initial wave of nausea passes.

Geralt?

He directs the question pointedly to the witcher. This isn't a two-way connection; Geralt can't read his mind in return.

Dorian doesn't go far enough away that Geralt can't follow him with his senses, the light tread of soft shoes, a diffuse ambient light limning the edge of the foliage, the smell of him pointing the direction taken. And if he were blind, deaf, dumb? Then the quick leap and tug his medallion makes in an attempt to bow him would certainly highlight that a mage were about. The unnatural weight of the wolf's head dissipates slightly after a moment and the tension in Geralt's shoulders ease just in time for that lilting familiar voice to chime between his temples.

It is never pleasant, as far as he is concerned. Fingers rub at his jaw because he knows the itch at his forehead is imagined.

I'm here. He moves closer to the railing now, watching below. Geralt's surface thoughts are ordered, neat, and as sparse as the man himself. The darkness and turmoil that compromise the base of him would have to be dug for and that would stand, certainly, as a breach of trust. They're moving toward the music. Perhaps you might ask her to dance. Dry, oh dry. It could be that, mentally, Geralt's humor is just a little more clear.

Intriguing and tempting as that core might be--mysterious and potentially dangerous as dark depths beneath calm waters--the absolute last thing Dorian would be inclined to do to anyone is rifle through their mind. He'd nearly had his entire self altered by a far more insidious version of this sort of magic. He allows himself to reach only for those thoughts nearest him, the ones directed there by Geralt himself. Assured of their connection, he hurries along the path, his staff lighting his way.

You think I won't? I'm an excellent dancer. Dorian meets Geralt's humor with his own, smiling to himself in the dark. That tone and feeling carry through so clearly like this that he can imagine the slight twitch of Geralt's lips, the angle of his brows.

Rather than taking the long route through the house, Dorian returns to the party by way of an outdoor stair to the lower terrace. He reappears through the trees ringing the patio, and it's almost as though he never left. The magical lights he'd strung through the trees still emit a soft glow, the guests glitter, and the stench of sweat and wine and clashing perfume overpower the natural botanical scent of the rest of the garden. It's dizzying and his stomach lurches unpleasantly. Except--that's odd. It hadn't smelled nearly so strongly to him earlier. A side effect of his magic? Perhaps giving him some small taste of what Geralt normally experiences? It's so unexpected and bizarre that he stops short, leaning a little on his staff. He's never shared this much in a connection like this before, intentionally or otherwise. How is Geralt so different?

I understand why you aren't partial to events like this. I can barely breathe.

Geralt lets his lips pull upward slightly at the answer because there is no one to see and waits, watching, following the light tether of his senses until Dorian goes far enough to pull from one and put himself in another-- the gentle glow of his staff displacing shadows on the stairs before he even comes into view. Geralt stares as the dark spots form and press back but the sweep of ivory robes distract him.

After a moment he realizes that it's not only the ivory robe that is distracting; there is a faintest of echoes, as if his keen ears are picking up the clatter of the party revels from two distinct points. One is muted enough that he has to strain to hear it, but hear it he does. Odd. When Dorian speaks up again, Geralt's head drops from the slight tilt it had lifted into and he blinks, refocusing on the mage below. Even without the staff as a beacon, the witcher would have had no trouble finding the man in a crowd; no one else draws his attention the way Dorian does.

You-- The thought stops, crisply, as the connection between the mage's words and the echo is made. Interesting. You get used to it. Or you take up smoking. She is straight ahead about twenty paces.

It takes another moment, but Dorian collects himself and focuses on breathing shallowly through his mouth to avoid distraction. But he's still contemplating it even as he moves forward on Geralt's tip, allowing the crystal on his staff to go dark as he moves through the revelers.

I suppose this is how I can smell different to you than I do to myself.

The density of the crowd is both a blessing and a curse. There's no enjoyment to be found in his newly enhanced olfactory senses, but pressing through this many people also ensures that no one is noticing how dirt-stained his robes are from the knees down. With his staff in one hand and Geralt's silver coin in the palm of the other, he smiles and nods and shoulders his way through the party until he catches sight of Anetta. In profile, she cuts a striking figure. As she looks as though she really might be contemplating a dance, there's little time to waste.

"Lady Anetta," he greets, raising his voice to cut through the others between them. She turns with a swift snap of her head, and with her pale eyes trained on him Dorian is reminded oddly of an owl. That's part of bruxa lore as well, he recalls--their affinity with birds. But now he has her engaged, he smiles winningly and weaves past the couple between them to come within reaching distance.

"Lord Dorian," she replies politely. Her voice is a melodious low alto, and her polite regard is sharp-edged. "You've arrived late tonight. Or are you returning?" Though it lasts no longer than a moment, her glance downward is somehow still pointed. She would of course be the first to notice his muddy knees.

"The latter," he admits, affecting a suitable sort of bashfulness without being apologetic. "But what does it matter? I'm here just in time to indulge in your delightful company." From there, it's a simple matter to raise the hand holding the coin and take hers with it as he raises her fingers to his lips for a perfectly acceptable--if a bit ostentatious--kiss to her knuckles.

Her reaction when the pads of her fingers brush the metal is almost instantaneous. He sees her eyes widen and flash, her lip curl briefly back from her teeth in what on an animal he would consider a snarl, and she tugs her hand from his grasp with far more speed and strength than anyone looking at her might think her capable of. Her face twists with emotion--confusion, anger, surprise--before she smooths her ruffled feathers and takes a half step back.

Geralt, he thinks, there's your reaction. His own pulse pounds strong enough that he thinks he can nearly hear it. She's always felt a bit dangerous, but confronting her with silver in his hand--even if it is only a coin--put him in direct opposition to her in a way that he knows she's never considered him before.

"As ever, Lord Dorian, you flatter me," she says aloud, remarkably even. "I apologize for my hasty reaction. My hand was injured recently and has yet to fully heal."

Playing along, Dorian gives his equally polite apologies and sympathies, even as he directs most of his actual thinking at Geralt. Would it be wise to pull her aside now? He thinks not, and sounds dubious even in his own head, but waits for Geralt to advise him.

I'm not sure that has only to do with my nose, but yes. There is a thread of humor underneath the words, the barest catch of a chuckle that would have never graced his expression but is captured by the purest form of his words. Everyone has a scent that's theirs, if you get close enough. I can just get closer. He should not have been caught off-guard by Dorian's pronouncement of Necromancy, but then he might have guessed a hundred more route branches of magic before that one, entirely despite the smell.

It isn't as if I go around sniffing mages.

The thought slips though without intention or notice, an aside to himself, sitting halfway outside of the conversation. Geralt, watching Dorian weave his way through the crowd, does at least manage to control any thoughts that might chain to it-- specifically thoughts about how smell and taste are intertwined and that Dorian isn't interesting for Geralt's nose alone.

His eyes narrow as he watches Anetta's precise motions as Dorian catches up to her. From here he has little trouble seeing and if he strains he can even follow that faint echo of sound. He hears pleasantries exchanged and tucks away for later knowledge of how very at home Dorian seems in this role he plays. Then he's reaching for her hand and-- there.

Yes, he agrees, the thought brief with no want to distract. A reaction, but the reaction of a bruxa? She is so elegant in her recovery. It doesn't sit fully right with him; that curl of her lip is certainly reactive but there is something in her gaze. Something... assessing. Something that reminds him of nothing so much as a predator sizing up the trouble of dinner. Don't move! He doesn't mean to think it with such an edge but thought is as fast as instinct.

No, he corrects, a second later, his tone as flat as it ever is. Not yet. They have decided on this course of action; Dorian is bait but not helpless. The shadows Geralt had watched push away across white marble steps in front of Dorian's staff finally catch up to him-- along with the memory of the mage telling him that the couple only ever come out to attend the parties. Yellow eyes cast around from twinkling treetops to banked, soft sconces and scores of candles whose warm puddles of wavering light are made half-insignificant by the nearly full moon. Antiva is always temperate, warm enough to hold parties outside where neighbors can see the wealth, hear the money in the clink of glassware and the laughs of the partygoers.

--All under the diffuse, unsteady, and romantic lights.

I want you to light your staff again, Geralt says. Oh, the thought is careful. He wants to start down the steps but forces himself into stillness-- he can throw Quen as far as Dorian, there is no need to move. His fingers already sit on the symbol. The same white light as before. As brightly as you can. Three seconds is all I need.

And the only person for whom the gesture would be more than obviousness than inconvenience-- after the mark of silver-- is the monster in the room. If she doesn't attack (and the bet that she won't feels unfairly weighted with Dorian within arm's reach) then Geralt thinks she'll follow the mage wherever he asks her to go. Be ready, in case. But I'm here.

Geralt doesn't have to tell him twice. Dorian remains where he is. He's very good at playing the game of pleasantries, even with someone who is suspicious of him or dislikes him. Even with someone he's quite certain could open his throat with a single swipe. But it isn't as though he's without protection. He can cast a barrier as fast as he can blink, and even were that not the case, Geralt has promised to be nearby.

As brightly as I can will blind the whole party, Dorian points out. But Geralt likely knows that. It may be exactly what he wants. Incredibly conspicuous, but far more troublesome for a vampire than an ordinary human. He's already formulating a plan to explain it away to everyone else. For Anetta, there will be no need. If she isn't already fully aware of what he's doing, she'll know soon enough.

Gathering power for such a spell takes virtually no effort for a mage like himself. Here you are. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Dorian screws his own eyes shut in the splitsecond before his staff blazes with a light so bright it engulfs the patio and shines into the trees beyond, casting harsh, stark shadows. Dorian counts the seconds in his head. At three, he releases the spell. The light doesn't merely fade away, but bursts and dissipates into a shower of tiny, twinkling stars which shower the party-goers. Cries of shock quickly turn to ones of delight as vision returns and they're treated to what now seems like little more than an overly dramatic magic trick. All flash, no heat. Quite characteristic of Dorian, really.

Geralt is lucky that he raises his arm to block the direct line of Dorian's staff; even with his eyes closed down to slits so thin the irises are almost nothing but yellow the sudden white flare is great enough to push the boundaries of his endurance. He grimaces but keeps his eyes on Anetta-- and the results are obvious. The stark shadows that cling so tightly and so darkly to everyone near Dorian... they don't touch her at all. Behind her the marble floor is pure white while next to her Valentin's long shadow stretches onto the man behind him. Her face is porcelain and smooth in the bright light, her eyes cast downward as if in thought.

Geralt keeps his attention on the woman and the fingers of his arm not raised to shade his eyes rigid in the sign of Quen even as the glow of the staff seems to expand and break upward, a clever conceit on Dorian's part. There is laughter and applause from across the patio but Anetta's beautiful, cold face watches Dorian without expression.

Mercurio's family has gained a higher vampire, Geralt says, his voice dry. The danger has not passed but he knows what they're dealing with and he knows that there is very little chance of a feral reaction now. Anetta has chosen her spot; he doubts that she wants to give it up in so crude a manner. He waits another moment, watching, and then pushes away from the bannister and out through the tight copse of trees. There are grass stains on the knees of his leather trousers to match those on Dorian's robes. Apologize-- and make it real. Offer your respect. Then ask her if you might speak alone but if she insists her husband come make no fuss. The last thing we want is Mercurio's interest. I'm following.

Lovely. Do take your time. Dorian's mental response is all cheerful sarcasm. A higher fucking vampire. The knowledge that he's pissed off such a powerful being is sobering. Anetta's expression may be remarkably composed, but she is angry. It's in the flash of her eyes and the tightness at the corners of her mouth.

Before Dorian can follow Geralt's good advice, she is reaching out to curl a delicate hand around his forearm, and her grip is hard enough to be bruising. Dorian feels the edge of sharp nails digging into his flesh like talons. "Is there something you would like to say to me, Lord Dorian?"

"I--yes," he starts, a little breathless with the sudden pain. He speaks quickly, as he senses that her patience is likely worn very thin. "The way I've behaved is reprehensible. Forgive me, my lady, for my ill-mannered trickery. I'd only like the chance to talk more privately."

Anetta's painted lips purse. "Ill-mannered trickery indeed. But what else can one expect of sorcerers?" Her eyes dart away, narrowing at a point across the patio. "Mercurio's put you up to this, hasn't he? Of course he couldn't stop at hiring the witcher." Dorian's evident surprise makes her sneer. "You thought you could conceal his presence from me? Adorable." She peels her fingers from his arm one by one, leaving behind a dark bruise livid against his warm brown skin and five fine pinpricks. As he inhales sharply, she smooths her hands casually over the skirt of her dress. "I would like to speak with the witcher. My husband is at least capable of entertaining himself for a short time."

Well, Dorian thinks with an almost hysterical sort of false cheer, at least she's agreed. She knows about you, by the way. She's known this whole time.

When Dorian boldly offers her the same arm she'd bruised she raises her brows marginally, but accepts it and allows him to lead her back toward the house. We're going to the dining room. You saw it when you arrived earlier, yes? It's a cavernous space off the hall leading to the lower tier of the garden, and with the party happening outdoors it is--as Dorian predicted--utterly deserted.

The off-center vibrato of Dorian's thoughts that reads as fear is noted but Geralt only feels relief because he is well enough to speak. There is a part of Geralt that feels winded for the realization that he was worried. Fire would be your only offense--but only to protect your life, Dorian. Better not to piss her off. Anymore than Geralt had already asked him to do. The stairs are taken two at a time with the mage's next words and just before his boots hit the main floor he sees Dorian offer Anetta his arm-- then everything but the occasional glimpse of their heads disappears into the thick of the eye-level crowd, still chatting about the fireworks and how lovely it is that Mercurio has such a mage as his disposal. They part for him both consciously and otherwise.

I didn't consider that she might have smelled me, Geralt admits. It's been decades since he's come across a higher vampire. A bruxa was much more likely. He slides through the guests and instead of flanking to the location as he might have otherwise done, he simply follows in Dorian and Anetta's wake, separated by the bulk of the party. I know the room. I'm behind you. Valentin is spared a glance as Geralt passes him. Higher vampires can enthrall humans, but Geralt's couldn't point out the signs when done by such a skilled hand. Valentin looks like a man slightly bored by his company-- his eyes flick once to the direction where Anetta's gone, but that's all.

When he turns into the empty dining room, Geralt's face is expressionless; he is only a witcher, and an impartial one. The sword on his back he'd re-belted out of fighting position as he'd walked. It might help his cause and was of no use to him anyway-- there was no room and he had nothing on him with which to mount an offense. That doesn't mean that he's without protections but there is not a muscle to betray how ready he is to move, to form a sign or slam his forearms into heliotrope.

Geralt bows slightly and gracefully. "Lady Anetta. I am Geralt of Rivia."

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