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{ pfsb } The Battle of Kaer Morhen
Aug. 22nd, 2022 07:20 pmIn the time since Geralt and Lan Wangji had left, they'd shored up Kaer Morhen's defenses as best they're able, although it's still little enough. Geralt had done what he'd promised, that's clear enough: allies come alone or in pairs, riding or trudging up the winding path that leads to the ancient keep's shattered gates. Some he knows, some he's never met.
But all are willing, and that's all he can ask.
Yennefer and Wei Wuxian have spent hours, entire days, warding the crumbling keep as well as they can, while trying to keep the elf Avallac'h alive. He's peaky enough not to show his face down in the main hall – not for meals or for any other reason – and Vesemir can't be sorry for it. Lambert and Eskel train with the grim single-mindedness of men going to an almost certain doom, and spend the evenings making potions and bombs and tinctures in quiet companionship.
For himself, the old witcher is simply trying to keep everyone on an even keel; trying to keep them fed, healthy. As ready as they can be. That goes for the horses, too, which is why the morning sun sees him out near the stables, setting out a bucket of water for a pair of black mares. He strokes along one's warm flank and glances up at movement on a parapet: Yennefer, watching the road for Geralt and Ciri and trying to pretend that isn't what she's doing.
Beneath his palm, the horse shivers, then lays its ears back and shies, trumpeting concern. He tries to calm it before it can set the other one off, but neither horse pays any attention to him. They're attuned already to the thing he only feels a moment later: an impossible wind, a brilliant light.
And then a haze of green mist and sparks appear, three figures stumbling through. In the next second, the haze is gone, but the three remain: the White Wolf, Lan Wangji... and Ciri.
But all are willing, and that's all he can ask.
Yennefer and Wei Wuxian have spent hours, entire days, warding the crumbling keep as well as they can, while trying to keep the elf Avallac'h alive. He's peaky enough not to show his face down in the main hall – not for meals or for any other reason – and Vesemir can't be sorry for it. Lambert and Eskel train with the grim single-mindedness of men going to an almost certain doom, and spend the evenings making potions and bombs and tinctures in quiet companionship.
For himself, the old witcher is simply trying to keep everyone on an even keel; trying to keep them fed, healthy. As ready as they can be. That goes for the horses, too, which is why the morning sun sees him out near the stables, setting out a bucket of water for a pair of black mares. He strokes along one's warm flank and glances up at movement on a parapet: Yennefer, watching the road for Geralt and Ciri and trying to pretend that isn't what she's doing.
Beneath his palm, the horse shivers, then lays its ears back and shies, trumpeting concern. He tries to calm it before it can set the other one off, but neither horse pays any attention to him. They're attuned already to the thing he only feels a moment later: an impossible wind, a brilliant light.
And then a haze of green mist and sparks appear, three figures stumbling through. In the next second, the haze is gone, but the three remain: the White Wolf, Lan Wangji... and Ciri.
