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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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."

By the time Geralt reaches the dining room, Dorian and Anetta have separated. He stands beside the table, and she sits at the head of it, chair pulled out far enough that she can cross her legs. Dorian stands several feet apart, grip tight on his staff. She seems entirely unconcerned, drumming her sharp nails against the hard polished wood of the table. Her eyes snap up in the moment before Geralt enters the room, Dorian notes as he watches her. He casts a glance at Geralt as he bows and introduces himself. Even now that they're able to lay eyes on one another again, Dorian doesn't disperse the spell that keeps their minds linked. It's better that they have a way to converse that Anetta isn't privy to.

Took you long enough, Dorian grumbles. He's held a fire spell at the ready since he and Anetta entered the house together, and he isn't releasing it even now. Anetta speaks up virtually at the same time.

"So you are." She rises slowly to her feet, a sense of deliberate control in every movement that belies how effortlessly fast she must be able to move when she is not pretending at humanity. "I have no doubt that my brother-in-law hired you to eliminate me. As you must have realized by now, that won't happen. What do you hope to gain here, witcher?"

That's a difficult question to answer in this situation, no matter who it might be posed to. No one is going to get what they want here. That's plain. Mercurio doesn't want a vampire in his family. Anetta doesn't want her life changed or interrupted. For his own sake, Dorian doesn't want to disappoint his employer, but he also doesn't want anyone dead--especially Geralt. Dorian wants this business concluded, in part at least because he selfishly wants the witcher's time and attention for himself. And Geralt?

Dorian can only hope that what Geralt wants is much the same. Not that he would be able to tell Anetta that even if it were true. But what outcome would suit him best? What sort of peace can all of them hope to achieve? Dorian is more than a little out of his depth with the situation, and has little choice but to look to Geralt to provide that answer.

Because a large man with a sword strapped to his back running through a crowd is a fine way to let everyone know that things are as they should be, Geralt replies,, the intensely wry tone in Dorian's head a strange counterpoint to his face, blanked of expression and focused soley on the lady Anetta. If she'd wanted to hurt you she would have already done it.

And then, belatedly and with an earnestness that shocked even himself: I'm glad you're alright.

Leaving the internal conversation, Geralt's eyes slowly track her every motion. Surely she would win in a match of speed... or would she? He'd known of witchers who had made the choice to stand against higher vampires; most had at least held their ground long enough to continue breathing. And there is also the not insignificant fact tonight that if she decides a fight is what she wants that she had not just a witcher at her front but a mage of no middling power at her back. Geralt is glad, finally, for the snug cut of the tailored leather jacket he was given; it keeps the wolf medallion pressed to his chest even as it shivers and trembles as if it is trying to crawl away. What the hell is Dorian holding at the ready?

But none of that is why he is standing here. "In truth, now? I intend to do nothing but tell Mercurio that his contract is null." Geralt shrugs. As a rule he does not collect coin up front and so all Mercurio will be out is his hospitality. He doesn't glance at Dorian, gives nothing away, but thinks that he has a found a better consolation than coin here tonight. "I kill monsters, Lady, and I think we can both agree that you don't fit that definition.

"Unless."

Yes, his sticky grey conscience.

Geralt spreads his hands so very slightly as if to say oh well, the gesture almost comically relaxed while preparing to make very intimate accusations against what is probably one of the stronger creatures to pass through the Conjunction. "How are things with your new husband? Mercurio has reason to believe his brother bewitched. Apologies for the tricks I put you through," neatly pulling the blame from Dorian's shoulders, "but based on his accounting I was under the impression that you might have been a bruxa."

Which is surely the least offensive way he can ask her if she'd been drinking Valentin's blood, and if so, was it with his consent?

Good thing that Dorian has plenty of practice in concealing his emotions and regulating his expressions. Lying, and lying well, is a necessary skill among the alti of Tevinter. If he didn't have it, he certainly would have given himself away with a reaction to Geralt's relief at finding him unharmed. He wants to go to him, take his face in his hands, press into the strong line of his body--something. This hadn't been the ordeal he'd expected, but it has been nerve-wracking nonetheless.

But he remains neutral and silent, even through the connection they share. Geralt has to devote his attention to appeasing Anetta, anyway. He's glad that Geralt intends to simply drop the contract. It's the safest option.

Of course, then he goes on. Frankly Dorian doesn't care whether or not she is manipulating Valentin. Thankfully, rather than offended Anetta seems amused by the suggestion.

"So this determines whether or not I am a monster to you? Intriguing, given the way humans so often treat their spouses." Nonetheless she smiles, though there is no humor in it. "Valentin knows what I am, and we have an arrangement. If he is bewitched, it is only because he has finally met someone who could save him from himself." There does seem to be some fondness when she speaks of the man, at least. "Tell Adrian you will not hunt me, witcher. The rest I will settle myself. This is a family matter."

Confident and poised, she seems to believe she's said the final word on the matter. Dorian looks to Geralt. We should do just that, he advises. It seems unlikely that she'll threaten anyone here if she's determined not to expose herself.

Geralt returns the humorless smile with one of his own, and inclines his head at the irony of human affairs.

He'd said as much as Anetta admits to Dorian earlier in the night-- some men were content to be led by a woman, be it by one head or the other. Antivian life at such elevation might be hard for one mentally or emotionally unsuited to such pressure to succeed (with often untimely and curiously tragic death waiting to mark failure) and so, it seems, has Valentin found his own course of action forward. Geralt thinks it is rather clever of him, to be honest. "It is indeed," he says to her last point, "and nothing that I want to put myself in the middle of."

Geralt finally brings his eyes to Dorian. After willfully holding his attention away, even for such a short time, returning to the mage feels like a full inhalation. No, he will not be paid tonight. No, he doesn't care. "Shall we?"

He waits for Dorian and they are both at the door before he pauses, his hand on the frame, and looks back at Anetta. "The contract specifically tried to exclude me from taking it," he says, because he must. "Which means that even if he doesn't know what you are, he knows what I am. And he wants you dead." The knowledge is a better apology for the slights they took against her tonight than anything else he can offer.

With the full measure of Geralt's attention on him again, Dorian feels a deepening sense of relief. "Of course," he says aloud, reminding himself to speak rather than think. He gives Anetta her due with a bow before he crosses to Geralt, feeling lighter and breathing easier with each step closer. The power of the spell he holds in reserve fades away like so much smoke on a gentle breeze. But his bare hand, when it touches Geralt's arm, is still warm with the residual heat of it.

It seems Geralt's warning is well received. The vampire tilts her head thoughtfully, though she doesn't seem perturbed. "The last isn't news to me. But I thank you."

Dorian gets the distinct impression that if Mercurio can't accept her presence, someone is going to end up dead--and it won't be her. As soon as they're free of the room, Dorian lets out a breath, slowly exhaling the tension that had been building in him since he first approached Anetta. "I need a drink," he sighs. "He isn't going to be pleased." There is some impetus to see what happens, if only to know how angry with him Mercurio is likely to be. But Geralt had summarized Dorian's feelings as well when he'd said he didn't want to be caught in the middle of this.

But there is a reward for them yet. Here they are together, and now without anyone else's problems to worry about. Looking at Geralt, a wry smile curls on Dorian's lips and he finally releases the spell that links their minds. He hadn't realized how much he'd actually been smelling until everything quickly dulls.

As Dorian's warm fingers come to rest against his arm Geralt momentarily feels the jump of his pulse in his throat and he wonders, briefly, if the reaction is something that Anetta can sense. His face is smooth and controlled but such a visceral undoing would be something Geralt has no basis for; his body has always reacted exactly how it is supposed to react. He knows it and can account for it, always.

Except for the brief pressure of Dorian's fingertips.

Geralt nods to Anetta and turns, leaving at the mage's side without any rush. Out of direct line of sight and in tandem with Dorian's sigh, the witcher glances at his companion. "Better to get it done with, then." Not knowing Dorian's exact position within the man's house, he can only consider his own personal ramifications-- which aren't many. Geralt couldn't care less if Mercurio is angry with him; as far as he is concerned the contract is null and perhaps Geralt wasn't the witcher that the man wanted but he was the witcher that he got. This will be an end of it and there is little threat that could be laid against Geralt personally; he is not physically afraid of anything Mercurio could level at him in his disappointment, and the Antivian has no reach into the witcher brotherhood.

The slipping of the spell breaks the train of thought before it reaches perhaps its less than obvious conclusion-- that, impossibly-- there is more that could be done to bother him because his world is just a little bit wider than it was before tonight. Geralt doesn't think that Dorian might have things to lose here, and certainly hasn't thought as far as witcher and mage as a them in a forward trajectory that would carry one or both past the doors of this great villa.

It is perhaps a little selfish to admit that he's really not thinking past a bedroom stained with magic and unbuckling the harness that cuts the long lines of the body of the mage at his side. No, Mercurio is truly given hardly more than a passing thought now that the largest threat is no longer looming; he simply cannot compare.

Selfishly, Dorian isn't thinking much further ahead than that either. He isn't worried about tonight's outcome, and though he dreads having to deal with him, he certainly isn't frightened of Mercurio. Dorian might currently find himself in less than ideal circumstances, but he is still an Altus of the Tevinter Imperium with all of the experience and status of his upbringing, and he'd never be cowed by an upjumped Antivan merchant whose only true power is his money. Dorian could play court mage with another wealthy benefactor just as easily, and Mercurio knows this.

"Of course," he says tightly, and even now is drawn in by that unnamed and irresistible force that seems to orbit the witcher. His hand rests against the soft leather of the fine jacket Geralt barely fits into, and Dorian hardly notices the ache in his arm where Anetta's handprint has darkened and the prick of her sharp nails has swollen the skin. "You're right."

As much as he'd like to simply disappear to his room with Geralt, he should at least make sure that the master of the house isn't likely to burst in, furious, in the middle of things.

"Will you wait? Or will you come with me?" And though he'd like to think he knows the answer to his next question, he steels himself anyway. Geralt has refused him this once before after all, but it says much about the connection between them that Dorian is willing to possibly be made a fool of again by asking. Rarely does his pride allow him to give second chances. There is something guarded in the steel of his eyes, wariness in the lower pitch of his voice. "And will you stay after?"

"I'll come with." There is no hesitation; that is the easy part. He must deal with Mercurio, tell him that the contract is null. It is the question that comes after and the way that Dorian's eyelids lower just so slightly that steers the next course of action.

They're not quite rejoined the party. Geralt turns and hedges the mage back into a corner, out of the direct line of sight from the patio. The roar of the guests seems leagues away and they are very close. He does not touch because if he's begun that he thinks that he'll have to finish. "I might be thrown out," he says, his rough voice a broken sort of murmur. "This is Mercurio's house and I'm going to tell him something he doesn't want to hear." All Geralt has is an amulet tucked away that will call him a portal home. No horse, no bedroll, nowhere else to go. His voice drops lower. "But I would take you on the forest floor under the stars if that were the only way that it could be managed." There is a husk in the words that inspires bloodflow, as if in his mind Geralt is already peeling away the layers Dorian is wearing.

And he is close to it.

Geralt inhales loam and his eyes shutter slightly. He forces himself to step back, and then again. His heartbeat is faster than it should be. "Lead the way."

Like so many instances this evening, when Geralt crowds him back Dorian goes, enthralled and eager. But he again stays deliberately, frustratingly separate. He itches to draw him closer, to encircle and ensnare him, to pull him flush against his body and find his mouth, warm and welcoming, with his own. He wants to see Geralt's gold eyes flutter closed with desire, wants to make him feel as achingly susceptible as Dorian does now, hearing that promise in a voice that continues to rub him raw. It's base and barbarous and utterly beneath him, and it is more romantic than any other proposition he's ever received. It excites him. He can practically feel his pulse pounding beneath his jaw.

"If you're thrown out, I'll be going with you," Dorian says, not far above a murmur. What he means is that one is as likely as the other, but the way it sounds is tantamount to the sort of stupidly lovesick devotion that he's always tried to avoid. Naturally he has to temper it with some acid, like any sturdy armor. "But you presume quite a bit, Geralt. Namely that I would ever agree to fuck on the forest floor--and even so, that I wouldn't be the one taking you."

One thing Geralt will learn eventually: the quicker Dorian is to refute something, the more likely it is that he's interested.

Though not as bright as Geralt's, his eyes reflect the light filtering from the party. His lips curl into a smile with a sharper edge and his chin tilts up at an arrogant angle as he puts a hand against Geralt's chest and applies enough pressure to urge him back without outright pushing. That would be uncouth. "After you."

The hand against his chest feels like one of the most monumental things that Geralt has ever had to deal with. He had not touched Dorian for a reason but then all his intentions are shattered with a deliberate hand and his nostrils flare slightly as his fingers curl into fists. The expression that races across his face is desperate and struck and that it appears at all says a very great deal about how much Geralt is fighting against every instinct in him that wants to make a scene here in this crowded corner, just outside a party. Let Mercurio find them-- let Anetta drink-- so long as they do not disturb him getting what he wants.

He steps back. It is a wonder that the ground does not swallow him whole.

And even so, that I wouldn't be the one taking you?

Dorian might be amazed, the things that aren't often said to Witchers. Men such as Geralt are so often bared even eye contact or casual touches and here is a mage happy to threaten him with so intimate a thing? It is as if someone has hung a gong at the very center of his ribcage and beaten it violently. Geralt thinks he is walking a straight line as he stalks through the party and toward the last place he had seen his host-- guests scatter out of his way-- but he can't be sure.

Mercurio and his own lady (not a vampire of any sort and looking in general quite like a horse) are entertaining two others on a more secluded part of the patio. The merchant prince takes one look at the incoming Witcher and his own mage following in the wake that he bends in and murmurs something to his guests, who incline their heads and stand to go. Two lightly-armed guards step to block Geralt's way and are almost thrown aside with a twitch of Aard; the sign is pulled at the last minute and snap of cross-wind breeze buffets his own hair and Dorian's robes. Geralt takes a forced breath and waits and perhaps it is good, a moment to calm his nerves. He lets the swell of the party in, the smells and sounds and small magics strung here and there all looming louder and larger until everything becomes an overwhelming sort blanket, smothering individual inward thoughts. By the time the guards step aside the tension had bled from his shoulders and his face is less sour. Mercurio beams as they come closer.

"Our Witcher is here, my dear. Just look at him-- no wonder I didn't notice you amongst the guests, dressed so finely. Have you--"

"Your contract is null." Geralt's voice is low, gravel, and cuts directly through Mercurio's inane chatter. He knows very well that the man knew he was here but even had he not, the time for pleasantries is passed.

For a moment there is comedy; the Antivian prince's face hangs open and in shock and his wife sits up as if someone had stuck a post straight up her ass. It takes only a moment for the wind to shift, however, and this time Geralt's had nothing to do with it. Mercurio's face clouds over, his eyebrows drawing into a thick line even as a muscle in his jaw begins to spasm for the way his teeth are being forced together. He stands, slowly. "Tell me then, Witcher." The words are very, very carefully measured. "Why is that?"

Compared to his employer, Geralt now is the perfect picture of ease. "You have no monster. Your brother is under no thrall other than his prick and perhaps the first good business decision he's made in his life. The contract is null." It is not the most delicate of explanations, but it leaves little room for argument.

Mercurio's face pales and then flushes a deep scarlet. He stares at the Witcher for a long moment before his attention rakes toward Dorian. He draws himself up, his chest inflating under his expensive fabrics like a sail catching the wind. "You were supposed to deal with this--" a bejeweled finger is jabbed in Geralt's direction "--thing!" He might be talking about the man or the situation, but the truth is that he is demanding an answer to both problems.

Though it isn't verbal, Geralt's response to his words is utterly striking. His expression makes it clear that he's deeply effected, far more than Dorian ever could have anticipated. Dorian's own expression shifts swiftly as his playful haughtiness fades, enraptured by this moment of open vulnerability. The party, the vampire, his employer--everything but Geralt is an afterthought. He wants to pull him close and keep him there, regardless of where they are and who might see. He needs to feel Geralt's hands on him, just as he needs to feel more of Geralt beneath his own.

Yet again Geralt manages to resist the temptation of further touch in a way that Dorian knows he couldn't have, were their positions reversed. He feels a nauseating pull low in his stomach as if from a sudden drop. Geralt pulls away wordlessly, and Dorian follows. It's easy to walk in Geralt's wake. People part on either side of him like an oar carving through still water. Geralt walks with a purpose, and Dorian feels the nearness of the magic from his Sign as much as he does the breeze that stirs the edge of his mud-stained robes.

The conversation with the merchant prince and his wife begins about as Dorian had expected it to. He comes to stand beside Geralt, shoulder to shoulder in a show of solidarity. The witcher explains the situation plainly, and of course Mercurio gets angry rather than trying to understand why this might be. Dorian might feel some pity for him if he weren't so willfully ignorant--and if he weren't being so blatantly insulting to Geralt. Though Geralt's placidity shows that he's well used to being treated this way, it makes Dorian's lip curl and his fingers tighten on his staff. He's glad to finally be addressed. He has something to say.

"You hired the witcher to determine whether your family was being threatened. He's done just that, and determined that there isn't a monster to be slain." There isn't anything diplomatic about the way Dorian speaks. He may be in Mercurio's employ, but he won't be scolded by him. Nor will he allow him to belittle Geralt. "Valentin chose to marry Lady Anetta. You must accept that or accept that he doesn't wish to have anything more to do with you. I'll not involve myself in your personal affairs any further."

"I--! You--! He--" Mercurio can't seem to find exactly who he wanted to curse, his face moving toward a rather alarming shade of red until his wife lays a hand on her husband's arm. He shakes her off with snap of motion but he does draw a breath and seems to settle, taking a moment to smooth down his doublet unnecessarily before he returns dark eyes to Dorian. His heavy moustache still looks like it's ready to tremble when he speaks, however, his tone low though hardly a match for Geralt's own growl of vocal cords.

"You should not take such a tone with the man who sponsors all you projects," Mercurio says. "You're nothing but a spoon-fed court mage who had a job to do! By the Maker, Pavus, it wasn't even a hard one." His disgust shifts back to Geralt. "I wrote a contract that was ignored by the brotherhood-- you should not have been allowed in the door."

"Yes," Geralt replied, his voice cool and even. Even had he come at the man in a fury this impartial cloak would have been drawn tightly around him quickly enough; this was business, and witchers did all business the same. "But I was, and that makes the terms of the contract refutable. Witchers are given leave to act in the case of duress." Which Mercurio nor his guests are in, obviously, but the letter of law is a fine thing to have on one's side. Mercurio looks as if he's swallowed a toad. "I will not ask for payment. The contract is closed."

Family business, indeed. But who would want to make this their family?

"Mutant trash," Mercurio hisses. His arms sweep outward in a needlessly dramatic gesture. "Get out of my house! And you," to Dorian now, "you as well. As long as we are in the business of ending contracts tonight, consider yours withdrawn." His wife sniffs. A proper lady by all Antivian standards, she's never really cared for Dorian's flamboyance.

Dorain doesn't quite know how he manages to bite his tongue through that tirade--possibly because his anger makes bitterness swell up in his throat to the point that it makes speech impossible. Geralt is by far the calmest among them, likely due to experience dealing with similarly odious men.

By the time Mercurio lands on mutant trash, Dorian's jaw is set hard, and he is glad that his next words are a dismissal. He wouldn't have wanted to stay anyway. His pride takes a hit even so. How dare this man break their contract before he can break it himself? The audacity! With an air of sarcasm so thick that even a silver sword couldn't cut through it, Dorian sweeps into an exaggerated bow.

"How courteous of you to say exactly what was on my mind, Adrian. Certainly, I think your court would be better suited to another sorcerer. Perhaps a cowed southern Circle mage with half my knowledge and even less talent would be a better fit. You'd actually have something in common." By virtue of experience and pure spite, Dorian manages to hone the flame of his anger into the cutting edge of his words. When Dorian is angry, he hisses. To huff and puff as Mercurio does is beneath him. "You can expect myself and all of my projects gone by morning."

He dictates the terms of his own sacking with aloof confidence in the sort of indignant, self-assured way of those born to wealth and power that leaves no room for argument. "I'll begin now, shall I?" He smiles. With a twitch of his staff, the whimsical mage lights in the trees surrounding the patio that have kept the party illuminated flicker out like so many suddenly doused flames. The garden is plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the scattering of candles on the banquet tables. Distressed chatter and cries of shock erupt around them. Feeling sufficiently revenged, Dorian turns to Geralt. Though he can't see him well, he's certain that the witcher has no trouble.

"I believe our business is concluded, Geralt."

No, the witcher has no trouble. And yet for a moment there is hesitation, his yellow eyes on the angles of Dorian's face as if he's looking for another reality below the precise and cutting words that he'd just used to end his tenure on his own terms. Before them Mercurio is yelling with forced cheer to his guests that everything is fine and the guards have rushed away-- no doubt to find more light. But Geralt simply stands and takes his time to find the assurance in his companion that doesn't mean there won't be regret tomorrow but at least that tonight, certainly, is over.

Mercurio stalks toward them from the gloom, leaking hot air like a kettle left on the flames for too long. "I never want to see you near my house again! Not anywhere in Antiva! I own this city, you jumped-up pompous little cu--"

And that is as far as he gets, because all the rest of the charming words spewing from his mouth are cut off with a swift palm to the chest, too fast to be tracked in the dark. His breath flees his lungs in a whoosh and without his guards nearby to help, Mercurio is left gaping like a fish and sitting down heavily on the flagstones, a sack of potatoes dropped on the spot. He's wheezing like a bellows, his knees sticking out at rather ungentlemanly angles. Geralt gives it a moment and then leans down, brushing nothing from Mercurio's shoulder before grabbing the man by the forearm to haul him to his feet under the pretense of help. "Thank you for your understanding in giving the mage a night to collect his things," he growls, the words offering no argument even if Mercurio could catch his breath. "Now perhaps you should see to your party considering it's rather dark suddenly and you're surely not the only one tripping over his own feet. Well enough that there are no monsters about, wouldn't you say?"

And maybe Mercurio doesn't see the flash of the lean, white smile, but that is fine. It is only for Geralt, anyway.

He turns back to Dorian and nods. He'll clear out his rooms first, at least, as some small show of good faith that he doesn't feel but knows better than to push. Besides, he doesn't think that he'll be needing his rooms anyway. Now that he knows the way he can lead the mage if the man would rather keep the lights off. Truly a fitting end to a rather obscene party. The best guests will make it an excuse to carry candles around and continue on, if Mercurio has the sense to spare them, but none of it matters a bit to Geralt. He won't be coming back out to the patio.

Had Geralt not intervened, Mercurio might have found himself on the recieving end of a nasty spell rather than a palm to the chest. Dorian is nearly as surprised as Mercurio himself, though certainly a great deal more satisfied. Standing so close, he can see the outline of the two men, and he can certainly make out the growl of Geralt's voice. His spine tingles with it, and the feeling lingers.

With nothing further to say to his former employer himself, Dorian takes a measured step toward Geralt, finding that he can just barely make out his features. In the dark he doesn't hesitate to reach for his arm and wind his own through it. There isn't anything tentative about it. He takes hold of Geralt with the self-assurance of a man who knows where he is wanted.

"Let's go," he urges. "Kaffas, I really can't see a thing." He laughs, amused by his own joke. Dorian doesn't mind relying on Geralt to guide him. In fact, he welcomes the chance to be led while he thinks. There is much to consider now, though he is far less worried than perhaps he should be. He's been out of a home before. He'll find a place again.

And for tonight he has Geralt. Somehow that feels equally important.

"It's quite all right," he says with cheer, assuring himself as much as the witcher. "I'll figure something out. I would rather be anywhere else. Nearly, anyway."

Geralt gives no reaction to the arm in his, because what should he do? One option is to shirk the easy touch not because he doesn't enjoy the slight weight of Dorian's arm but because he does, which leads the second option-- and he doubts that the party is truly dark enough to hide two men rutting. He is left with controlling himself regardless of the warmth against his side and the deep smell of loam in his nose.

"Nice weather," Geralt mutters, which is to say that he can find little nicer to say about Antiva then something so banal. If Dorian will need to find somewhere else to go... certainly the assurance is the truth and mages have ways, networks, of finding such places, even Necromancers. Perhaps especially Necromancers, is the truth of it.

He pauses at a junction between the wing where he'd been placed and the wing where the mage was housed. Here the scones light the corridors with wavering soft light. Geralt pulls his arm away from the mage with something like a sigh pressing at his chest. It is quiet. They are alone. There is no monster and now no employer-- and if he reaches out and begins something then it will most likely start and end right here on the cold flagstone, he knows that as surely as he knows himself. Just a little more control. So little. Geralt clears his throat. "I need to go get the rest of my things," he says. "I'll meet you at your rooms."

And then a strange thought occurs to him: that despite all the dancing away and together they've done over the course of the night, it has been, all of it, obvious yes, but also unspoken. At the crossroads in the hallway, Geralt turns to Dorian. He remembers the sharp edges of the conversation a year ago: If you intended to stay the night, perhaps we might spend it together. A brittle memory considering how he acted then and what he feels now.

"That is." Geralt inclines his head slightly. "If you'll have me."

It is Dorian's right of refusal, tonight.

blood & wine (geralt)

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