ximilialog | OPEN | big your dad after thanksgiving vibes

Entry tags:

OPEN | big your dad after thanksgiving vibes

CHARACTERS: Geralt and YOU
LOCATION: *vague hand gesture* Around
DATE: October 1-6
CONTENT: Geralt is getting his bearings and hmm'ing at everything
WARNINGS: TBD

I. THANKS, IT HAS POCKETS

[ A laboratory wasn't a new sight to Geralt — provided he turned a blind eye to the jumble of crates dominating the far wall, brimming with metal scrap pieces and strange that smelled vaguely of copper. Turning his focus on the workbench and shelves of delicate glass vials labeled for his convenience, it was almost like being at home. All it needed was dripping stone walls and the scratching of rats underfoot, but he wasn't complaining.

Rows of vials Geralt has carefully set up beside small hand instruments and scales fill the workbench. Geralt mutters to himself various measurements and takes inventory as he removes small leather pouches from his gambeson. Several leather pouches whose number defy how much could physically occupy a single space. Geralt reaches for one and pulls the leather cord sinching it together, and immediately the smell of sulfur emanates from the laboratory.

Without turning around, Geralt stands straight with his shoulders drawing into a taut line. The moment anyone's first footfall hits the floor he calls back, ]

Don't touch anything. Unless you're looking to burn off your eyebrows or smell like a horse's ass the rest of the day.

II. HMM

[ What bothered Geralt the most about the Ximilia wasn't the idea of being on a flying ship drifting somewhere out in the stars or that he had potentially made a disastrous pack with an otherworldly entity. That he could deal with in his own time. No, what unnerved him was how solid everything. Uniformly sturdy floors made of something like metal but shone like marble, he couldn't muffle his footsteps or find defects to hear others approaching as everything echoed. Every corner was lit in the same sterile white that hummed incessantly. It was impossible to fade into the background or ignore anything else. Even the silence was deafeningly loud.

Finding the sunlight room had been a welcome reprieve — even illusions could be relaxing if one didn't look too hard for the cracks. Geralt drops to his haunches under the tree with a heavy thud and a low grunt. A small pile of leaves dried and brown with the turning season crunched beneath him as he settled onto his knees with his feet tucked underneath. Removing a whetstone from a pouch on his belt, Geralt unsheathes his steel sword and idly begins some much-needed maintenance. A task to keep him busy, but the familiar surroundings took some of the edge off.

When he wasn't sunbathing, Geralt followed his nose to the mess hall. The kitchens were as sterile as the rest of the station, which he definitely appreciated. It was nice not to contend with vermin or a fat mouser for food. The refrigerator was new, though. When he opened it expecting a larder and instead found a chill tickle his face, he immediately shut the door. And then he opened the door, closed it again, and finally decided to open it when he confirmed: Yes, it was freezing on the inside, and No, the light didn't stay on after he closed it. Geralt grabs an entire brick of cheese, a sealed pack of deli turkey, and a half-empty crate of beer. The last of which he glared at, cursing as he wondered how in the hell it opened.

Sometime later, Geralt can be found in the common area. There is nothing to keep his attention long, even after thumbing through random books on the shelves. What does cause him to linger is the couch. Less than a minute after falling onto one, Geralt has crossed his arms over his stomach and let his head dip down. Chin to his chest, Geralt drifts into a shallow nap. Mouth twitched behind his unshaven face as he remained distantly alert but too tired to ignore the siren's call of cushions not stuffed with straw or down. ]

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[ Geralt had no expectations when his lot was drawn for room assignments. The worst that could happen is rotating out bunks with a stranger and smelling their sweat in the sheets every time he needed to rest. Geralt would rather sleep out in the sunlight room if that were the case. If he weren't up for sharing, that solution would almost be ideal — illusions didn't have insects and ghouls picking at your toes.

Instead, what he found beyond the door was more refined than the stacked cot barracks he had dreaded. Two beds — one recently vacated, the other made up so tightly to a regimented degree — occupied opposite ends of the room with matching writing desks and chairs. The latter bed was supposed to be his, but he was drawn to the other end of the room after dropping down what little he carried. He was kneeling by the bed before even asking himself why.

— He knew exactly why. This entire side of the room was saturated with the scent of lilac and gooseberries. And unless Yennefer was giving fashion advice across the Conjunction separating worlds, it only meant one thing.

Geralt lowered his head and found a few things haphazardly thrown under the bed. Two bottles — both glass, one with the slightly floral smell of vodka. The nice kind, not the rotgut that would blind you before the blackout. The second bottle was glossy, green, and had a residue Geralt couldn't recognize. Slightly metallic with a corrosive burn that made the back of his throat tighten from the smell alone.

Raising his head, he looks over the thrown-about sheets. Crammed between the pillows was a black shift that was still warm to the touch. Yennefer could sprawl out like an ink spill in bed, but something about how the comforter was moved suggested someone else had been in here. That hadn't bothered him as much as the idea that Yennefer was here, and possibly avoiding him. Geralt finds himself standing there, holding what could only be her shift and staring at it like a puzzle he couldn't solve. ]

[ Somehow, the possibility of anyone else being assigned to her room so soon after Billy's departure had not occurred to Yennefer in the slightest.

It's why a good portion of the living quarters in question are not necessarily organized — she's not inclined to make a good impression with anyone, and those who are even permitted into the room to begin with are typically acquainted with her well enough not to comment on it, are those whose opinions she wouldn't take to heart anyway, or still possess a healthy level of intimidation where she's concerned.

All of the evidence in the room therein, by extension, points to a woman who is not intending on hosting anyone as company — at least not for the immediate future — and its current and presently only occupant emerges from a door within the room itself, having just taken a quick shower judging by the robe draped around her frame and the loose updo of her hair.

For a moment, she merely glances over the man holding the most recently-worn article of her clothing in one hand, violet eyes flickering with the mere hint of surprise before she schools her face into something significantly more nonchalant and simply crosses the space to the wardrobe, opening the door. She's going to have to take more care about keeping her pulse level around him, she realizes; it's been some time since she was in the same space as anyone with senses capable enough to pick up on it. ]

Letting yourself in without knocking already?

[ The doors here were sealed with no gaps or spaces for air or sound to carry. Geralt hadn't fully appreciated this frustrating feature of the station until the door behind him hissed opened. Warm steam carrying the smell of perfumed soap registered before he heard the sound of bare feet padding across the tile.

Geralt turned fast on his heel; fast enough, his right knee quivered with an angry ache. The hand around the shift tightened as if Geralt had meant to wield it. Even well-armed, he wouldn't have reacted differently than the way he stopped, rooted to the spot and staring. Outwardly, only the slits of his yellow eyes contracted, and his neck muscles bulged as if swallowing something tough. Inwardly, he felt like he had walked out of a storm and into the ocean. ]

Yen? [ Geralt dropped the shift and grasped at the snarling wolf's head around his neck. Still as a statue — this wasn't an illusion or something more sinister, he was sure of it. Only the woman before him was from decades ago, a lifetime ago. It was just as the first time they met in Rinde — where there she stood, naked and vaguely irritated on the instruction. ]

[ It serves to put her where she prefers to be with him — decisively in control — but the truth is, she’s not entirely prepared for the moment when he turns around and she gets a direct look at his face head-on, realizing that the man standing before her has definitively aged, signaled as much by the angry scar crossing over the side of his features as by the subtle crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

It’s not only that, but the way he looks at her, how he says her name — Yen — with something approaching suspicion but also tentative caution, as though he doesn’t entirely trust what’s standing right in front of him.

She represses the instinct to grasp for the front of her robe, to hold it closed out of some attempt at preserving the control that feels primed to gradually slip through her fingers, and instead turns for the closet with a projected calm she doesn’t entirely possess within. ] I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you found me all on your own.

[ Both he and Yennefer were understandably poleaxed by the situation they found themselves in, and likewise, neither of them was keen on revealing that fact. A problem when Geralt knew she could get into his head — literally and every which way in between — and he could hear the quickening thud of her heart.

Geralt watched her move with practiced poise but couldn't help but like the ground between them was littered with glass. Something was wrong, and not just Yennefer's appearance. Only Geralt knew he couldn't just outright ask her what exactly. It ran the risk of coming out as an accusation. Especially consider why people seemed to arrive here. ]

Hello to you too. [ That might get him a fireball lobbed at his head or a kiss or both, but he hedged his bets all the same. ]

[ No quick dismissal, and certainly more than the grunt she'd expected to receive; that response, as intentional as it is, gives her pause, and she stills behind the opened wardrobe door that gives her temporary cover from him, fingers instinctively curling around the edge. It serves as a fleeting moment for her to steel herself, to try and regain some level of composure around him, and then she reemerges, keeping the robe belted around her waist as she pads across the floor to where he stands closer to the bed. ]

Surprised to see me?

[ It's as much of a testing question as anything — to ascertain what he remembers last, especially of her, but also to establish how they might have left things. Clearly, better than her more recent memories from Kaer Morhen considering he isn't greeting her with a blade to the throat.

There's a pause, tension hovering in the silence, and then she idly remarks: ] When did you start growing the beard?

That feeling appears mutual.

[ Geralt stands sentinel where Yennefer had found him, with only his eyes moving as she padded around the room. There was almost a tease in how she wound around the wardrobe door like a coil of sweet-smelling incense smoke. Almost, he thinks, as he notes the white knots of her knuckles poking through her skin where his hand grips the door. Momentary tension and likely not because she was annoyed at a limited choice of attire.

Yennefer stands closer now, close enough that Geralt had to be mindful as his hand reaches up to rub across a week's worth of stubble. ]

It hides the laugh lines. [ Dropping his hand to his side, letting it hover near the bend of her arm before deciding against it. There was a barrier between them he was still trying to understand, but he had his suspicions. ]

And you're eyeing me like it was our last fight in Aedirn, [ Well, not so much a 'fight' as it was Geralt slipping out of Vengerberg with his tail between his legs and Yennefer wanting blood. It was definitely one of their more heated 'off' stretches of their on and off periods. ]

Which was decades ago. [ He levels her in a stare that wasn't unkind but also wasn't wavering. ] What's going on, Yen?

[ It takes him being in the same room as her for her to remember how much awareness she usually possesses in herself whenever he's close — near enough to touch, judging by the hand that briefly wavers in the vicinity of her arm before falling, helplessly conjuring the thought of what his touch on her would feel like if it wasn't accompanied by some sharp blade.

The revelation that they'd had some sort of argument, even one with several decades between that moment and this one, comes as little surprise; she's not sure if there'll ever be a time when they don't find some opportunity to oppose one another, even if the process of making amends tends to make all that came before it worthwhile. In some ways, she's always suspected that a piece of them secretly enjoys the fighting, if nothing else because the reconciliation proves even more enjoyable. ]

You keep looking at me like...

[ Like he isn't actively harboring thoughts of throttling her, for one, and she's forgotten how much she inwardly wanted something like that from him — golden gaze certainly piercing and intense, but without the tension of loathing around the edges.

In the end, it's her who reaches out first, nudging the back of her hand into his palm, her knuckles to his lifelines before slowly, carefully interlacing their fingers. ]

[ The two of them were both cautiously navigating lines that cordoned them off without knowing the shape or breadth of the line drawn down the middle. Geralt had been grasping at straws as to why Yennefer was the more reserved between them — something he would have never previously accused her of being.

Her fingers interlocked with his own. Right away, Geralt notices the absence of the familiar and begins to understand. With a light squeeze of his middle and forefinger around her ring and pinky fingers, Geralt covertly measures the length of her bones, running his thumb over her knuckles. The metacarpal bones are all even, and the intermediate bones aren't disproportionate to the proximal. — As if they hadn't been magically healed after being mutilated by Vilgefortz a decade ago. Magic was imperfect and fickle when healing, Geralt knew its marks well.

His suspicions she might be another illusion, some part of his regret echoing back on him, are laid to rest when he thumbs her wrist. The ghost of a line whispered across a vein. Or when he sees the imperceptible cant to her shoulders that only he ever noticed and somehow adored. The right imperfections were there, but the shadows of other horrors were not.

Geralt thinks he understands now and that they will have a lot to talk about later. ]

Like I missed you? [ His free hand winds around damp curls that spill like ink between his fingers before cupping her face, warm and flush from the bath. ]

[ The manner in which he touches her hand could be equal parts refamiliarizing and scrutinizing, and while in any other instance she might tug herself free, wrench away and demand some level of explanation for it, she's too drawn in by the notion that he wants to touch her, willingly, and without a measure of hostility or suspicion behind it. For her part, his skin is as familiarly calloused against her own as she's always remembered — perhaps one or two more scars here and there, to say nothing of the more pronounced ones on his face, and there are certainly stories to be told from those, but she won't interrupt the quiet that falls between them for a few moments to make direct mention of it now.

It is still him, that much is beyond evident, and while he must have however many years of difference on her, the history between them has only become more pronounced — and more confusing by extension. Whatever, exactly, has transpired, it has only seemingly resulted in him still wanting to be around her, and that she cannot pretend to hold anything but relief for.

His other hand rises to touch her before she can even put a finishing thought on her sentence, and then he concludes it for her, and the sensation of broad fingers threading into her hair, his palm cupping over the round of her cheek, drives a telling exhale from her lips — she has wanted this, wanted him, ached for possibilities that her own actions laid ruin to, and now that she has it her mind is swimming with what to ask about.

Instead, she says nothing at all, nudging into him with a determination all her own — she finds his mouth with hers, wanting to discover whether they fit together just as well as they always had in the past. ]

[Wangji had begun a tentative exploration of the strange place he found himself in but had largely kept to the areas that were the most similar to what he was used to for the first couple of days. They were still different enough that adjusting took some time and effort. And now that he felt. . . well, not comfortable, but acclimated, he had decided it was time to learn about the rooms that were stranger still. One of the first was the kitchens. They resembled the kitchens he was used to in only one way - that of the pots and pans and utensils for cooking itself. The rest were all incredibly foreign.

He took his time moving through the room while the other man - who had arrived before him and was opening and closing what looked to be a magical larder of some sort - played around with the food storage. Eventually, he made it over to the same place in time to witness the man pull out a yellow block of something, another block that had the look of meat to it, and a third... box of some sort that seemed to have bottles sealed inside.

As the man cursed and did not move, Wangji cleared his throat to gain his attention.]

[ Geralt knew the other man was there — he was quiet, but not entirely silent. Rooms made of metal echoed enough to give him a headache. Only for the present, Geralt was just ignoring him. It wasn't until after Geralt scared up cutlery and a plate did he heard the throat-clearing bid for attention. He might be a man who routinely digs through sewers and corpse-strewn battlefields hunter monsters, but he wasn't an oaf. ]

What? [ Geralt grunts, ] I wasn't going to eat with my hands.

[The man's eyes flick up to Geralt's face and then down to his hands before returning to the strange box that he'd been playing with.

His lips parted, only slightly, for a brief moment, then shut. There was an uncomfortable air to how he held himself - stiff and formal and clearly as out of place as Geralt.]

The cabinet.

[He finally said, his eyes returning to Geralt, though they remained averted to avoid eye contact.]

Is all the food stored there?

[ Ah, Geralt thought. The lack of eye contact could have been for many reasons, but the permanent state of mean-mugging Geralt's face was set in likely didn't help.]

Just anything cold, I haven't figured out how.

[Only cold food? So an ice box of some sort, then.

Wangji nodded to indicate he understood the other man's lack of knowledge in this.]

Mn. The... technology-magic of this place is... different.

[He turned his gaze to the 'food' the man had pulled out.]

The food. What kind is it?

[ Mother had firmly installed in Hermann from an early age that it was rude to stare. This scenario did not differ from any other.

He sits quietly by himself with a bowl of (what he assumes to be) tomato soup. One hand sits on top of his lap (anchoring the clothed napkin on his lap) while holding a spoon with the other. But he can’t help but pick up on the sporadic opening and closing of the refrigerator door. And eventually, his eyes glance at the man pulling out a beer.

Such a curious sight. He can’t help but feel the tiniest amount of sympathy. Hermann’s eyes slightly squint through his circular spectacles, just to make sure he isn’t missing anything to confirm that yes. This person is struggling a bit.

Hermann leans over ever so slightly to his side— ]

The opener is under the second drawer to your left.

[ Geralt turns and gives the man at the table a once over. Bookish would be putting it mildly, but Geralt didn't grudge the academics for their chosen path in life. Only this man was a little tense and likely in no small part because of Geralt's barreling through the place. Which — fair. ]

The what? [ Pulling out a beer bottle, Geralt instead eyes the crimped metal seal around the top. Nods once to himself

— then lines up the lip of the bottle with the counter and slams his open palm down. The bottle cap sails across the table before rolling to a stop near his new soup-slurping scholarly friend. ]

Well, that worked. [ Geralt tipped the bottle at him before taking a pull. ]

[ He flinches when the bottlecap nears him, only for the object to plop down in front of his bowl. ]

Yes — [ Hermann’s two fingers touch the rim of the cap and sets it on the other side of the table. ] One would hope that an opener opens.

It's opened. [ Geralt said on the end of a satisfying gasp and slap of the bottle on the table where he sat. His full weight and still being kitted out made even the reinforced steel groan, ]

I'll be more mindful of proper dining ware when I've got my bearings.

Ah, you too then.

[ He resumes tucking into his soup, being ever so careful not to make any slurping noises when his lips touch the side edge of the spoon. ]

That makes the two of us. I’m afraid I am woefully unprepared materially speaking. My satchel was rather small coming aboard here: A pair of pyjamas and a few pieces of decor for the desk. I’ll have to look at the storage supply for a coat.

[ He takes another spoonful of soup. ]

Honestly, they wish for us to go out there with no proper outerwear. Let alone a space suit. How they’ve managed to not catch one bacterium boggles the mind.

Me too.

[ The conversation is thoroughly overtaken by the excitable blur of movement from the man's larynx as he speaks at length. Some of it included words that made Geralt's eyes nearly cross, but he remained placid as he idly forked mouthfuls of meat and cheese between sips of beer. ]

Ah, [ Geralt nodded at the mention of bacterium, ] I just wash my hands and invest in a decent pair of boots.

[ Which wasn't fair when a witcher's immune system was nigh-on impervious. ]

Boots?

[ He ponders and looks down at his own two feet.

Boat shoes. Not something you’d want to wear on a sub-zero planet. ]

I hadn’t taken into consideration proper footwear.

[ #HermannIGotMyPrioritiesOnDeckGottlieb

A beat. ]

Have you been out? To see the stars, I mean.

Good pair could save your life. [ That he knew to be fact.

Then Geralt stilled mid-sip just as the rim of his beer touched his bottom lip and stared at Hermann for a long moment. ]

Occasionally, I've been known to look up when outside.

[ the sunlight room is a place xichen spends a good amount of his time on the station, playing quiet and peaceful notes on his guqin or flute.

today he is here for another reason in the early hours of the morning, set on meditating and going through sword forms. the training room is better for training, of course, but xichen has grown up on a mountain where his training grounds were surrounded by nature and sometimes an old heart grows wistful for such things.

he has finished an hour's long meditation, is pulled from it by the familiar sound of whetstone working over sharp metal. xichen stands, stretches his arms over his head, picks up the small pouch resting beside him and makes his way over to explore. he is greeted by the sight of someone he has not seen before. ah, a new arrival. ]

A valiant undertaking while we are on the station. The missions are when most remember and far too late. [ he offers, a wry smile on his lips. ]

[ Stone slides across still with a soft hiss in a rhythmic sound that cuts through the breeze rustling the leaves on the ground. He caught the scent of something earthen but clean, moving downwind because he heard footsteps.

Geralt could only compare the smell to the spices from the Ofiri traders, but the man in question was far removed from anything he had seen. New sights were becoming the expected norm here.

— He paused mid-swipe of his whetstone and looked up, white brow arched. ]

My valiant undertaking of sitting here?

Sharpening your weapon. [ xichen said with an amused smile, a dip of his head. ] Though I suppose one could say the same about sitting and resting.

Plenty spend the time between missions doing nothing but training through injuries. [ and xichen is sometimes one of them so really, who is he to judge one for it. yet here he is, doing just that. ]

[ Oh, what's this? She just came in here to lounge, maybe take a cat nap, and it seems someone has beaten her to the punch. An older looking man too. She's mostly met people around her age so far. He could be a good... ten or fifteen years above her. Or maybe it's just the striking white hair misleading her. He seems to be in good shape and his face is rugged but not worn by the stressors of time to terrible degrees. Interesting scars too. Must be stories to those.

She observes this all while crouching down a foot away from the couch, simply watching him sleep and taking in the features. Look but don't touch. To call it borderline creepy is an understatement. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and it's his fault for falling asleep here anyway. ]

[ That shallow state of just toeing the edge of proper sleep was what often kept Geralt alive, but he never enjoyed it. Never fully rested and roused with a cloying, lukewarm feel and taste of a dry mouth of cotton. It was better than sleeping too deeply and winding up dead, but not by much.

And it was because of that he could sense the faint pull of something — or someone — nearby, yanking him back to consciousness.

With a half-shout, half-snort Geralt jolts awake where most anyone else would have snoozed on. ] Fuck— !

[ She's a little startled but does her best to cover it with a shrew smile, blunt bangs hiding her eyebrows and eyes sharply focused on him. ]

Good morning. [ She rises up and takes a step back, giving him space. ] Or maybe afternoon? There isn't a real day and night cycle here I suppose.

[ Geralt shakes his head with the care of a wet dog, trying to free itself of the water clinging to its fur. He looks up and sees a woman with cheekbones he could sharpen steel on and finds himself undecided if she's malnourished or just severe in countenance. ]

Serves me right for falling asleep out in the open, [ He said not unkindly as he scrubbed a hand across his face. ] Was banking on "good night," personally.

Passing out in public... I can't say I relate, but I've seen my fair share of it.

[ She's too paranoid for sleeping in the open, for multiple reasons that share no relation. There's being a woman for one. For another, having a target on her back. ]

I am sorry for waking you up. Didn't mean you startle you.

[The Energon is all stored in the refrigerator, which unfortunately is blocked by some guy repeatedly opening and closing, wasting energy for some reason. It wasn't all that entertaining, unless you were drunk. And from what he's seen, humans tend to understand what the cold box was used for.]

Excuse me, I would like to retrieve something from there. [The tall robot stands some distance behind Geralt with his arms crossed.]

[ Curiosity (somewhat) satisfied, Geralt at last closed the refrigerator door. Behind it was a sight that inspired Geralt to do something he rarely did without first drawing his sword — look up. He stands there, arms at his sides and blinks. ]

Who the fuck put armor on a giant?

[His theory of Geralt being a bit drunk has not yet been disproven.]

Cybertronian, not giant. This is my...form. [He can't deny that he's wearing armor. And in his original size, he might as well be a giant wearing armor.] We are beings of metal, for your information. Now, may I access the refrigerator?

[Clayton halts in his approach like a teenager caught sneaking out of the house. It's not that he's doing anything suspicious - he wasn't making any special effort to stay quiet, and his intentions for this unfamiliar man in the laboratory were purely curiosity (perhaps a little concern at the sulfuric smell wafting down the hallway nearby). But Clayton knows on an almost instinctive level that he has no business being in a lab like this. It feels off-limits, in a way.]

[Geralt's rough tone at the intrusion only solidifies that idea.]

Oh! Yeah, sure thing! [His hands go into his sweatpants pockets, as if to prove that they won't go wandering.] I, ah. Hate to break it to ya, but I think we're past the point of it smellin' like horse ass in here.

[ Geralt gently set down the saltpeter he had been measuring out before moving his equipment out of the way. As he did so, he watched the man enter, noting that he was skulking around with that nervous slink of someone afraid of being caught. ]

Speaking of asses, you're more jittery than a goat with a firecracker up its back end. I'm mixing black powder in here in case the smell didn't give it away.

[Clayton snorts a laugh.]

Suppose I am! Sorry. [With a little roll of his shoulders, the man relaxes a bit.] Didn't mean to intrude is all. Just checkin' to make sure nothin' was about to explode. Which...

[His nose crinkles as he cranes his neck to look at Geralt's workspace, though Clayton still makes an effort to keep his distance. He doesn't want to get in the way.]

...I'm assumin' it won't? You're talkin' gunpowder, right?

[Dante's managed to scrub off much of the dried blood now, but it still clings to him, that old copper scent, even faintly. That's what happens, he supposes, when you don't wash for a whole month. Still, when the sulfur smell hits him, even he has to wave the smell away from his nose. He's used to awful smells by now, it's all just part of the job, but after exploring this whole place and coming across nothing more offensive than slightly off milk in the fridge, this is a shock to the system.]

You kidding? A horse's ass would smell better than this. [Duly noted, though. He keeps his hands to himself, takes note of the man's hair from the back. If this is a situation like Nero...

No, too old. And so far as he knows his father never had any other children besides himself and Vergil. Probably, anyway. Who knows who else Sparda loved, before he met Eva.]

Lotta shit you've got there, though. Any of them happen to be edible?

[ Blood carried for days without being properly removed, but the metallic sting of blood assailing his nose along with the sulfur is the least offensive aroma clogging up the limited air supply of the laboratory.

With a schooled expression, Geralt eyed the interloper up and down. The man looked like Lambert if Lambert decided to copy his hair color and go on a two-week bender in the sewers.

Ger shrugged, ] Sure, anything's edible once.

[Rude, he was in a coma.

Well. Definitely not a relation, then, with those eyes. Dante keeps a smile on his face, tucks his hands into his pockets with a deliberately casual air that's a little off-set by the sword on his back. He glances at Geralt, and notes the scars. Those aren't the kind of scars you get, he thinks, collecting bottle-caps in a nice safe house.]

Eh. I'm hungry, but I'm not that desperate yet. [He keeps his hands to himself as directed, because he might be playing up the old man bit, but he's not an idiot. He says, intrigued,] What're all these for? The world's worst perfume?

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OPEN | big your dad after thanksgiving vibes

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@ choicely | yennefer

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mess hall.

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sunlight room ☀️

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ii. common area

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Mess Hall

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I - Laboratory

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