[ There's no announcement - the dignitaries had an official reception at the docks, probably, and the first wave of returned rogue agents have likely trickled in already, aided by Resistance members. But Geralt stayed longer, both to help Caster's gang of lunatics and sever a few extra heads.
Geralt dumps his boots, belts, swords in the gear rack that certainly exists in this house, too exhausted to notice any potential damage Lambert has wrought upon the place. Maybe there's a wall missing. Maybe there are hookers everywhere. It is a mystery. Geralt is bloody and reeks of gore and smoke and poison, and he is trudging upstairs.
choose your own adventure a) Lambert is home, thread proceeds without narrative pause b) Lambert is not home, greeted eventually by Geralt's shit on the main floor, and his bedroom door absently open, the man himself passed out in bed fully clothed ]
Edited (it's 3am what am i doing) 2019-10-05 10:11 (UTC)
[ Lambert’s not at home, in fact, because he has a job like a fine upstanding citizen of Aefenglom beating in the heads of anyone starting trouble in the Sly Seadog. The house is actually cleaner than Geralt left it, not that he’s in any state to notice, and distinctly hookerless.
When Lambert comes home, the mess that greets him makes him wrinkle his nose, but he trudges inside to survey the damage, the fuzzy ears that are only about leveret-length now growing from his head twitching back and pinning as clawed hands sit on his hips. Force of habit has him checking the gear to see if it’s clean, wiping off the worst if it’s not.
However, it’s force of asshole that means Geralt is getting woken up by a hot, damp towel being slapped onto his head. ]
[ Like all witchers, Geralt is able to go from a dead sleep to total alertness in the span of half a heartbeat, and so he does - the brief moment in which his nervous system screams of an unexpected attack quickly dissipates, recognition of Lambert's presence overriding it.
He peels the towel off his head and rolls half way up on his side as to better reach out and sock Lambert in the thigh. ]
Dick.
[ His voice sounds rougher than usual. Fucking exhausted, and the last tinges of just-healed smoke inhalation damage. ]
That floor was spotless when I left this morning. [ Lambert answers, unrepentant, taking the punch to his thigh without flinching because ducking away would mean conceding to being a pussy or something ... yeah, sounds about right. ]
The bath's ready, by the way. [ He sniffs. ] Since you're not missing any limbs, I assume I don't have to carry you to it.
[ Some crabby part of Geralt's brain (that sounds an awful lot like Vesemir) prompts him to ask why Lambert's playing housemaid instead of working on actual problems in the city, but he shuts it up on account of 1) stupidly argumentative and 2) immediately distracted.
He leans back on one elbow, and looks up at Lambert. ]
[ The better question would be what Lambert was cleaning the floor off in the first place, but since the question never comes up, he’s left looking at Geralt incredulously. ]
Yeah? You’re kind of disgusting right now, if you hadn’t noticed. You gonna soak that shit off or not?
[ And being a monster has only made his senses sharper, and not in a good direction. Blood smells pretty bad right now. Anyway, it hasn’t been that long ago since he was drawing baths at Kaer Morhen for Ciri and Triss, and that was a lot harder. ]
[ Because he's very tired, Lambchop. Blood and gore and remnants of chemicals used to control monsters, ash from the fire and unnatural ozone from the teleport, all of these things cling to Geralt and anything he's left dumped in the main room. Not a perfume he appreciates, but the only time he's bathed immediately after a battle was when Emhyr var Emreis had forced him and Yennefer into preparing for ritual suicide, dragging a sobbing Ciri away from them.
You rest after a fucking battle, and bathe later. Well. It's later, he supposes. Geralt huffs out a rough sigh and hauls himself up. ]
Just get in the fucking bath already. [ The younger witcher snarls -- coincidentally also revealing more prominent front teeth -- as said ears pin back.
He backs off to leave Geralt space to move, since he isn't following him in there. Serves him right if he drowns. ]
Isn't there a whole lot of oceanwater between Aefenglom and Doorshit? What'd you do to get back, fly?
Would it kill you to be less of a dick for a minute? [ Internal sigh. Geralt begins peeling off the rest of his clothes, hardened leather bits he'd decided were too much of a hassle to wrangle away when he'd first returned.
Thunk. Pieces dropped on the floor. The blood-smell only increases as he peels off something that's congealed to his skin. ]
Well excuse me. Maybe if you'd told me you were coming back, I could have put a homecoming party together. Or did you lose your mirror in all that mess?
[ Despite the automatic banter, he's watching him alertly before his nose wrinkles again and he takes a half-step back. ]
Since you're actually talking in whole sentences and you're not any pissier than usual, I guess it went well, then?
[ Geralt ignores the watch nagging; as if either of them are so ingrained to its use that a message would be thought of or expected. He's rolled back into Kaer Morhen with no warning a hundred times in worse shape than this.
Speaking of time in Kaer Morhen, there's no shirking away from nudity as he undresses, as they've all seen it before. He has a particularly nasty bruise running from his knee up to his middle that he takes a moment to look at - moves his knee joint, is briefly somewhere else, mentally. He remembers when he was practically a cripple, and the years after, assuming no full recovery was possible.
Internal sigh. ]
Yeah, went well. [ Dry, tired. ] Found the rape basements beneath the 'orphanages' where monsters were being used as breeding stock to make new slaves. Fucking peachy.
[ He'd only had one moment where his faith shuddered, disgust at becoming an executioner, staring at a group of humans tied down and left alone after the monsters has been evacuated. But he found his balls in the end, and just torched 'em.
Geralt rolls his shoulders, heads to the bathroom. ] Some of the people doing the rescues got real precious about not wanting any violence. Because anyone in that business is just gonna go get a harmless job after that, sure. Idiots.
You surprised? There's always people who think they're too good to get their hands dirty. [ That's what we're for. Even if witchers aren't supposed to be executioners, it's still a job that calls for keeping up other people's trash. Speaking of trash, he's going to step over to the clothes Geralt has discarded, idly lifting it with a foot as he talks on. ]
Makes me wonder what Vesemir would say if he was here. Hey, you think I should just burn these or what?
Let me worry about my own laundry. [ You weirdo. If Geralt didn't know any better, he'd think Lambert was trying to express suppressed concern for him by mother-henning over needless crap.
He busies himself scraping the worst of the sticky and dried gore off; no need to immediately pollute the water and make a bath pointless. ]
[ Geralt tiredly lets go of the impulse to ask Lambert how the fuck he's supposed to know about anything that went on in Aefenglom, when Lambert is well aware of how busy he was, and what all is available on the watch network, and that he was the one who harassed Lambert into looking into shit in the first place.
Watching Geralt bathe is probably punishment enough. Even though he wouldn't be getting into the basin without Lambert. ]
[ It’s a rhetorical question, mostly, since Lambert isn’t in the least bit enthusiastic about reporting this — and reporting is what it is, like a dull recitation of how many forktails one saw fucking on patrol. ]
Followed my nose. [ More literal than Geralt probably even understands, even with witcher senses; new and unwelcome instincts aren’t something Lambert has been happy with. ] Found a few places they sell monster parts around the city. Nothing too legal, but nothing banned, either — nothing stopping monsters selling their own hair or feathers as magic components for a few cunes, or witches selling their blood for money. Enough people are hard up for cash. Broke up a few times it didn’t seem like the monster was keen on being there.
[ He shrugs, casual, even as he recites probably the most embarrassing part of the experience. ]
Guess I caught someone’s attention. Next thing I know, I’m getting knocked out, wake up in a cage of some other poor bastards waiting to get sold off to some aristocrats. Not just for pets, but parts, too. Then some blood-drunk vampire showed up and broke the door down.
[ That Geralt is listening as he's sluicing off gunk is apparent from the way his head's canted, paying close attention, digesting this information. With more care than forktail reporting. If it were forktails around Kaer Morhen, they could just go kill them. ]
Go on.
[ He'll feel less bad about displacing Aefenglom's elite, with housing, after this. ]
Big ears, big eyes -- seemed caught halfway through transforming, like she -- pretty sure it was a she, anyway -- wasn't used to it. Funny feet, too. Anyway, guess they took care of the witches that were running the place. Don't know if she just happened to be around or if she was after them in the first place, but I'm not complaining. Took off before me or anyone else could ask for a name.
[ He crosses his arms, staring at the ceiling. ]
Could've gone better. Could've gone a lot worse, too.
Someone attacked, and - what? You teleported back to the house? You got tea with your captor? Who was trafficking monsters? Who were the prospective buyers? Does the Aefenglom government give a fuck about what happened?
[ Like, go on, dude, he's not asking about the mystery vampire's ass. (Even though unbeknownst to him he's fondled it before. He'll put two and two together later, when Paloma comes over.)
Cranky splish splash. Lambert's investigation process at home must be a nightmare. No wonder he just kills everything unthinkingly. ]
Like I said, the witches — or whoever, guess I’m just assuming since that’s what she said they were — were dead by then, and they didn’t exactly leave a lot of paperwork, or any clue who they were working with. Didn’t really feel like sticking around, either. so we just walked out the door once we figured we weren’t next.
[ He rolls his eyes, then clarifies — ]
Me and the other poor fucks they picked up, that is. I got most of this out of them, after, but they couldn’t tell me much. They just know it happens. When I asked the Coven, all they said was that they’d look into it.
Don’t really expect much, though. The monsters with me were from outside the walls — didn’t have anywhere to go. For all I know, the apothecary I left them at’s selling them for parts now.
[ Not any more conclusive than the state Geralt and everyone else left Dorchacht in. He can always go investigate on his own, or throw a molotov cocktail in a Coven window, or something. For right now, at least Lambert's not dead.
Yeah, well, I'm glad bits of you didn't get left on the other side of a portal.
[ And that's about as tender as it'll ever get with the two of them, at least without alcohol involved. Unless Geralt volunteers any further avenues of conversation, he'll take the lack of further inquiry as his cue to start shuffling to the door to leave the other witcher to his ablutions. ]
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honey i'm home
Geralt dumps his boots, belts, swords in the gear rack that certainly exists in this house, too exhausted to notice any potential damage Lambert has wrought upon the place. Maybe there's a wall missing. Maybe there are hookers everywhere. It is a mystery. Geralt is bloody and reeks of gore and smoke and poison, and he is trudging upstairs.
choose your own adventure
a) Lambert is home, thread proceeds without narrative pause
b) Lambert is not home, greeted eventually by Geralt's shit on the main floor, and his bedroom door absently open, the man himself passed out in bed fully clothed ]
no subject
When Lambert comes home, the mess that greets him makes him wrinkle his nose, but he trudges inside to survey the damage, the fuzzy ears that are only about leveret-length now growing from his head twitching back and pinning as clawed hands sit on his hips. Force of habit has him checking the gear to see if it’s clean, wiping off the worst if it’s not.
However, it’s force of asshole that means Geralt is getting woken up by a hot, damp towel being slapped onto his head. ]
no subject
He peels the towel off his head and rolls half way up on his side as to better reach out and sock Lambert in the thigh. ]
Dick.
[ His voice sounds rougher than usual. Fucking exhausted, and the last tinges of just-healed smoke inhalation damage. ]
no subject
The bath's ready, by the way. [ He sniffs. ] Since you're not missing any limbs, I assume I don't have to carry you to it.
no subject
He leans back on one elbow, and looks up at Lambert. ]
You drew me a bath?
[ Ooo, Mr Darcy ]
no subject
Yeah? You’re kind of disgusting right now, if you hadn’t noticed. You gonna soak that shit off or not?
[ And being a monster has only made his senses sharper, and not in a good direction. Blood smells pretty bad right now. Anyway, it hasn’t been that long ago since he was drawing baths at Kaer Morhen for Ciri and Triss, and that was a lot harder. ]
no subject
[ Because he's very tired, Lambchop. Blood and gore and remnants of chemicals used to control monsters, ash from the fire and unnatural ozone from the teleport, all of these things cling to Geralt and anything he's left dumped in the main room. Not a perfume he appreciates, but the only time he's bathed immediately after a battle was when Emhyr var Emreis had forced him and Yennefer into preparing for ritual suicide, dragging a sobbing Ciri away from them.
You rest after a fucking battle, and bathe later. Well. It's later, he supposes. Geralt huffs out a rough sigh and hauls himself up. ]
Nice ears.
no subject
He backs off to leave Geralt space to move, since he isn't following him in there. Serves him right if he drowns. ]
Isn't there a whole lot of oceanwater between Aefenglom and Doorshit? What'd you do to get back, fly?
no subject
Thunk. Pieces dropped on the floor. The blood-smell only increases as he peels off something that's congealed to his skin. ]
Teleporter. Sucked.
no subject
[ Despite the automatic banter, he's watching him alertly before his nose wrinkles again and he takes a half-step back. ]
Since you're actually talking in whole sentences and you're not any pissier than usual, I guess it went well, then?
no subject
Speaking of time in Kaer Morhen, there's no shirking away from nudity as he undresses, as they've all seen it before. He has a particularly nasty bruise running from his knee up to his middle that he takes a moment to look at - moves his knee joint, is briefly somewhere else, mentally. He remembers when he was practically a cripple, and the years after, assuming no full recovery was possible.
Internal sigh. ]
Yeah, went well. [ Dry, tired. ] Found the rape basements beneath the 'orphanages' where monsters were being used as breeding stock to make new slaves. Fucking peachy.
no subject
Breeding stock. [ The disgust and contempt is thick in his voice, but he shakes his head. ] Didn't leave the bastards behind it alive, did you?
no subject
[ He'd only had one moment where his faith shuddered, disgust at becoming an executioner, staring at a group of humans tied down and left alone after the monsters has been evacuated. But he found his balls in the end, and just torched 'em.
Geralt rolls his shoulders, heads to the bathroom. ] Some of the people doing the rescues got real precious about not wanting any violence. Because anyone in that business is just gonna go get a harmless job after that, sure. Idiots.
no subject
You surprised? There's always people who think they're too good to get their hands dirty. [ That's what we're for. Even if witchers aren't supposed to be executioners, it's still a job that calls for keeping up other people's trash. Speaking of trash, he's going to step over to the clothes Geralt has discarded, idly lifting it with a foot as he talks on. ]
Makes me wonder what Vesemir would say if he was here. Hey, you think I should just burn these or what?
no subject
He busies himself scraping the worst of the sticky and dried gore off; no need to immediately pollute the water and make a bath pointless. ]
Dunno what's gonna happen.
no subject
[ Warded off the laundry, Lambert examines his claws instead. ]
Did you know they're selling monsters in Aefenglom too?
no subject
Watching Geralt bathe is probably punishment enough. Even though he wouldn't be getting into the basin without Lambert. ]
What happened?
no subject
Followed my nose. [ More literal than Geralt probably even understands, even with witcher senses; new and unwelcome instincts aren’t something Lambert has been happy with. ] Found a few places they sell monster parts around the city. Nothing too legal, but nothing banned, either — nothing stopping monsters selling their own hair or feathers as magic components for a few cunes, or witches selling their blood for money. Enough people are hard up for cash. Broke up a few times it didn’t seem like the monster was keen on being there.
[ He shrugs, casual, even as he recites probably the most embarrassing part of the experience. ]
Guess I caught someone’s attention. Next thing I know, I’m getting knocked out, wake up in a cage of some other poor bastards waiting to get sold off to some aristocrats. Not just for pets, but parts, too. Then some blood-drunk vampire showed up and broke the door down.
no subject
Go on.
[ He'll feel less bad about displacing Aefenglom's elite, with housing, after this. ]
no subject
[ Lambert shrugs. ]
Big ears, big eyes -- seemed caught halfway through transforming, like she -- pretty sure it was a she, anyway -- wasn't used to it. Funny feet, too. Anyway, guess they took care of the witches that were running the place. Don't know if she just happened to be around or if she was after them in the first place, but I'm not complaining. Took off before me or anyone else could ask for a name.
[ He crosses his arms, staring at the ceiling. ]
Could've gone better. Could've gone a lot worse, too.
no subject
[ Like, go on, dude, he's not asking about the mystery vampire's ass. (Even though unbeknownst to him he's fondled it before. He'll put two and two together later, when Paloma comes over.)
Cranky splish splash. Lambert's investigation process at home must be a nightmare. No wonder he just kills everything unthinkingly. ]
no subject
[ He rolls his eyes, then clarifies — ]
Me and the other poor fucks they picked up, that is. I got most of this out of them, after, but they couldn’t tell me much. They just know it happens. When I asked the Coven, all they said was that they’d look into it.
Don’t really expect much, though. The monsters with me were from outside the walls — didn’t have anywhere to go. For all I know, the apothecary I left them at’s selling them for parts now.
no subject
[ Not any more conclusive than the state Geralt and everyone else left Dorchacht in. He can always go investigate on his own, or throw a molotov cocktail in a Coven window, or something. For right now, at least Lambert's not dead.
Oh, right. ]
Glad you aren't in little pieces in jars.
no subject
Yeah, well, I'm glad bits of you didn't get left on the other side of a portal.
[ And that's about as tender as it'll ever get with the two of them, at least without alcohol involved. Unless Geralt volunteers any further avenues of conversation, he'll take the lack of further inquiry as his cue to start shuffling to the door to leave the other witcher to his ablutions. ]