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OOC

Player Name Lorna
Timezone EST
Contact PM, Plurk @ repeatandfade, ask for Discord
Pace Wildly variable from boomeranging to backtagging.
Brackets/Prose Either, happy to match style.
Seeking Gen, shipping. As happy to write out SOL conversations as I am to dive deep into action sequences. Would adore castmates. Always looking for cross-canon.

• backtagging A-ok with me, but if we go more than a week without a tag, you may need to nudge me to reply.
• threadhopping Check with me first.
• threadropping I've done it, you've done it. It happens! We can always pick up a dropped thread or discuss a new one.
• fourthwalling No thanks!
• assumed CR Do it. Shoot me a message if you have any ideas you want to flesh out.
• offensive subjects No triggers here.
• smut Happy to write out or FTB as preferred.

• physical contact He's not used to contact of the non-violent variety, but he won't, like, punch you for hugging him, or anything.
• romance Always yes to Yennefers. Otherwise, still probably yes. He's a canonical town bicycle, especially when it comes to sorceresses.
• sex Sure.
• fighting Yes, always.
• injuries Go for it.
• death Let's talk about it first.
• timeline Generally I place Geralt at the beginning of W3: The Wild Hunt, but can grab him from just about any canon point. I'm familiar with the show and happy to write with show versions of castmates.

HMD

Let me know how I'm doing with the White Wolf. Comments are screened.

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Geralt was mutated against his will as a child in order to become a living breathing monster-fighting weapon. His canon – though not always his backstory – involves elements of rape, attempted incest, child abuse, violence, and more. If you don't want to deal with any of it, or just don't want to write with me, leave a comment below. Comments are screened.

Things have worked out for the Baron – mostly – but not so for the witcher. It's a long and weary trek back toward Crow's Perch from the Crones' village in the middle of the swamps, and it'll be a longer and wearier ride to Novigrad from there.

And still no Ciri. Glimpses of her; stories of her. But not the woman herself.

If he didn't have to ride to Crow's Perch for the blacksmith and supplies there, he'd be able to save some time. Cut across the country toward the bridges that lead into the heart of the city. Geralt considers his options, then makes up his mind.

A few moments later, the steady rhythm of Roach's steps falls into the Milliways air, as witcher and mare ride out of the woods together, making for the stables.

He'd had to force himself to slow down, to take their time as they traveled. First to Novigrad, to speak with Zoltan and Roche; then to board a ship to Skellige, where Ermion agreed to assist without hesitation and where Queen Cerys offered the aid of her finest knight – her brother, Hjalmar. He gets a message to Triss, does his best to do the same for Keira and Letho, somewhere in the wilderness.

Geralt sends them all to Kaer Morhen, and knows it won't be enough.

Lan Wangji is a quiet, reserved traveling companion. Geralt feels a pang at separating him from his husband, but it's not enough to make him want to send the cultivator back. Selfishly, he wants the man here, in case Ciri is in trouble. In case he needs to send her with her friend while he himself holds the path behind them.

They rise early, travel all the day, and camp at dark. On the ship to Skellige, Geralt meditates, his only other option to prowl the decks like the wolf of his name. And once they've reached the islands and found their allies, Cerys gives them a small sailing dinghy and sets them on their way.

Geralt steers them to the very edge of the archipelago, past looming, jagged rocks and endless tracts of gray, wavering sea, until they reach a place where the mists curl ethereal fingers along the edge of Lan Wangji's robes. The witcher heaves the little boat to, then reaches for the bottle he's stored in the qiankun bag Lan Wangji had gifted him what feels like a lifetime ago. "This had better work," he mutters, and uncorks the glass bottle to free the firefly spirit which Avallac'h had conjured. It flutters into the air, then describes a slightly wobbling path into the gray, hazy depths of the mists which stretch before them.

From Roach's back, clopping calmly along the winding roads that lead from Crow's Perch to Kaer Morhen, Skellige seems like a dream... or a nightmare, depending on which part he remembers.

But it was real enough, and so is the creature sitting before him on Roach's withers, occasionally cackling with pleasure and reaching one thin and scraggy hand forward to pet the mare's neck. "Not much of a conversationalist, are you?" Geralt asks. Uma only burbles something incoherent in reply, and Geralt sighs.

"Nothing a witcher and sorceress can't handle, huh?" he mutters to himself as they come to a halt at an inn, studying the back and top of Uma's bald, swollen head, the hunch of his back. "Yennefer's one of the great magicians of this world. Could be she's right."

Uma gurgles in reply, and Geralt shrugs. "Sure. But maybe it's time to call in a few reinforcements. A little more help couldn't hurt."

He dismounts and reaches to lift Uma down, but doesn't let go of the creature's hand once he's on the ground. "Inn here," Geralt tells him. "Let's see if the door will work the way I want it to."

Uma gives him a look of bland, watery-eyed curiosity, but clings to the witcher's gauntleted hand, his fingers like grasping, crooked twigs. His eyes – one enormous and goggling, the other small and screwed-up, both open in blunted astonishment as Geralt swings the inn door open and reveals, not the dim interior of a village public house, but something a great deal larger, brighter, and louder.

"Hm," says Geralt, satisfied, and steps inside, guiding Uma along with him. "Step one."

Junior is dead. Geralt doubts there's a single soul in Novigrad that will miss him.

Junior is dead, and Djikstra is alive – which is its own problem. But at least Dandelion is back, as obnoxious as ever, and he has the phylactery.

It's that last that makes him think of the tavern and Lan Wangji's offer to help, and he spends an evening nursing wine at the Rosemary & Thyme considering both. The young man is obviously a diligent student, and he's comfortable with his weapon. If his story was accurate, he can quell a monster troubling a village.

But the Hunt is something else entirely. And Geralt doesn't want to have innocent blood on his hands, if he brings Lan Wangji and his friend to this world only for them to be murdered by Eredin and his ilk.

He's still considering his options the next day, as he rides Roach slowly through the streets of Novigrad. He's at a dead end following Ciri's trail for the moment, and he needs coin: the notice pinned up on a board in one of the market squares catches his attention.

Calling all bounty-hunters, trackers and witchers! it reads.

Misfortune has fallen on Honeyfill and the apiary which for five generations has provided a livelihood for the entire Meiersdorf family! The apiarian phantom has descended upon us and has begun to destroy our hives, slay our bees and wreak general havoc all around! I shall be grateful for any help you can provide and guarantee a reward awaits you for work well done.

-Holoferens Meiersdorf & Sons

"Hm," says Geralt, and he takes the notice from the board.

A few moments later, he's opening a door into the tavern at the end of the universe, decision made.

The door opens, and a predator walks inside.

He is tall, broad-shouldered. Every movement is accompanied by the creak of leather and clink of chain; his boots sound steadily on the worn wood floor. Each of the two swords strapped to his back stretches thirty-eight inches from pommel to point, and a deep scar runs across his craggy face. His hair is snow-white. He has a cat's golden eyes, the slit, vertical pupils dilating as they adjust to this new, dimmer light.

This inn looked a lot smaller from the outside.

Smaller and dingier. And less...impossible.

"Hrm," says Geralt of Rivia, and drops his shoulders in a sigh.

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Geralt of Rivia

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