TEST DRIVE MEME #4

[fairyfoes]

TEST DRIVE MEME

Considering apping to EACHDRAIDH? Why not give the setting a test run here! OPTIONAL SCENARIOS 01. ARRIVING IN THE DRABWURLD. The Seelie and Unseelie courts welcome you with mirthful revelry and hearty food. After you have been briefed on your purpose here, you will find an endless feast and a night filled with entertainment to placate your concerns. Mingle with new arrivals, sneak down the castle halls and make sure your eyes are always on your glass; fairies and imps have no bias when it comes to tricks! 02. THE STATION. Looking for a little slice of home? The Station gives you all that and more. Take advantage of the wifi, have a cup of fairy-brewed coffee (the one they didn't spit in) or sit back and relax on the patio. You can even move your things into one of the available rooms! 03. WILDCARD. Your own scenario! Explore the Drabwurld or simply take advantage of your Locket!

Comments

[gwynbleidd]

Oh. The elf thought he hunted sorcerers. That was new. He has been accused of a lot, but never hunting down mages.

Finally, he turns his head to fully look at the elf glued to the wall. Drinking, too. That's never good. The elf's words make him think of Triss, however, but he doesn't believe Triss is who is being discussed. "I'll keep that in mind." Note to self: don't mess with any sorceresses he comes across. At least he knows Fenris may perhaps mean well in terms of personal loyalty. Now he's reminded of Iorveth.

"I don't hunt sorceresses," he explains. "I was with one myself. I hunt monsters." But he leaves any interpretation of that up to Fenris to decipher. "I mistook you for a fellow witcher," he continues, surverying the peculiar markings on the elf's skin, "because of your hair."

[restandbegrateful]

Fenris went very still, pale brows drawing into a dark furrow. His forefinger tapped the goblet he held, thinking hard and fast, despite how his skin was crawling. Had more like him been made...?

That word again. Witcher. "And for a moment I thought I'd been blending in," he noted, dryly. "What is a... witcher?"

[gwynbleidd]

Geralt knows about blending in, or, rather, he knows about not blending in. He's easy to spot, and people always know what to call him when they do.

Here is surprisingly different. Almost refreshing. He hasn't been called Witcher since arriving. "A monster hunter," he says, but this time he decides to clarify since Fenris bothered to ask. "We're paid to hunt beasts."

But not all beasts are monsters, and not all monsters are beasts.

[restandbegrateful]

Guardedly, he presses for more information. "And what is it about being a witcher that gives one white hair?" Lyrium, he thinks, though hearing that they are monster-hunters, he's less certain.

He drains the last of his glass, leaning his shoulder upon the stone so that he can face this stranger more fully, assessing him with care. He sets the knife he'd been holding between the leather straps of his belt where they double up over his left hip.

[gwynbleidd]

For a moment, he isn't sure what all to disclose. It's not that it's a sore subject for him to discuss, or that he's suspicious of Fenris knowing, but he already gets that many people won't understand the ritual, or will judge, or will be just plain afraid. "A side effect of mutagens. Our bodies have been adapted to give us abilities for fighting monsters." He doesn't mention these are done to children who have a great risk of dying; that's not common knowledge, and they are already labeled as freaks as it is.

"You got white hair a different way," he adds after a moment, quietly. It's probing stuck in an observation, but he knows it's true.

[restandbegrateful]

Mutagens is a word unfamiliar to Fenris, but he understands the rest well enough. His lips thin a little as he assesses this, holding the goblet between the pads of his middle finger and thumb, letting it pendulumn in very subtle movements.

"A different way, yes. But in the end, we were both changed. Were you made stronger to suit the designs of another, or did you choose it for yourself?"

[gwynbleidd]

And that's the catch. There's really only one answer, and Geralt would feel worse lying to this suspicious elf than he would admitting the truth.

"To suit another," he admits indifferently.

[restandbegrateful]

It's enough. Somehow. Enough to quiet the loudest of his suspicions and reservations, if only for a while. Later he might tell himself that the wine emboldened him; or the stranger's frank, simple earnestness.

Fenris caught Geralt's gaze and held it, offering his gauntleted hand between them.

"I'm called Fenris."

[gwynbleidd]

Typically, he doesn't really shake many hands--mostly because not many people want to shake his--but he does reach out to shake Fenris' out of politeness. "Geralt." He would add the usual of Rivia, but that's a bit irrelevant here.

Better than being jumped after coming through the doors. "You haven't seen any familiar faces here, have you?"

[restandbegrateful]

The grip was firm and brief.

"Only one," Fenris informed, with a fleeting look towards the sound of the revelry, thin lips drawing thinner still.

"And I don't mean for us to linger. The smell of so much bullshit offends."

[gwynbleidd]

Geralt follows the elf's eyes to the doors, considering how lucky (or unlucky?) it would be the find someone familiar in the midst of the festivities. Depends on who was found.

"You sound use to political discord," he says, looking back. "But you're not the only one. This place is home away from home."