lusi | (open) wind's howling

Entry tags:

(open) wind's howling

● WHO: geralt & all
● WHAT: event open post, closed starters, & monthly catch-all
● WHEN: throughout june
● WHERE: anywhere!
● WARNINGS: sex, aphro, violence

i. wind's howling. (rain)

[ When the rain starts, Geralt is glad he'd had the forethought to weatherproof his little campsite. It comes in starts at first, at times even while the sun is still shining, but when the storm really rolls in, it pours nonstop from the darkened sky. There's so much water all at once that Geralt worries about flooding, but the soil seems to be porous enough, thankfully, to soak up much of the water. Still, it means an uncomfortable day and night of hunkering down to wait out the weather.

Used to living outdoors, Geralt accepts it as an inevitable inconvenience; he's got blankets, a mattress on a tall (if shoddy) bedframe, a fire built in one part of the half-collapsed building he's set up in, and makeshift canvas tarps laid out on the floor and beneath the roof of one of the more intact rooms. Roach, his horse and such a constant in his life that the Augur had apparently thought to bring her here with him, is tethered near the fire to keep her warm and relatively dry.

Out of necessity Geralt ventures out at least once while the rain is heaviest, retrieving a bucket he'd put out to collect clean water for both himself and Roach and pluck up some of the grass that's already started to sprout for her to munch on. If anything could convince him to brave this miserable weather, it's caring for his horse.

But he isn't the only one out. Eyes narrowing to see through the gloom and the water cascading from the sky, Geralt approaches. ]

You trying to catch your death out here?

[ His low growl might be hard to hear over the pounding of rain against the ground, so he gets closer, nodding his head back in the direction of his camp. ]

Come on. Got somewhere warm to sleep, if you want.

ii. after the storm (plants, love darts)

[ There is plenty to be done in the aftermath of the rain. Shelters need to be repaired, supplies need to be gathered, and all of this new growth of flora needs to be investigated. With a pretty extensive knowledge of flowers, plants, root, and berries, he's looking for anything that might be familiar or prove useful, whether to create decoctions, blade oils, simpler poultices, or just to eat. A lot of the plants, especially the flowering ones, are entirely new to him. Given his experiences so far he hadn't exactly expected to find a whole lot he'd recognize, but some of these things are so strange-looking that he has to take his time examining them.

Footsteps nearby make him turn instinctively toward whoever might be drawing closer, and as he moves, so does the plant he'd been looking at. Whether with a cloud of pollen, a spray of nectar, or the shooting of a sharp burr, Geralt stumbles back a step with a snarl. ]

Shit. Careful.

[ It's as much a self-admonishment as it is a warning. He has no idea what these things are capable of. While he's immune to most known poisons and toxins, that doesn't mean he won't have a really bad time of it anyway if something proves to be particularly concentrated.

The effects of these plants are varied, from a simple but fast-acting aphrodisiac dart to a nerve-stimulating pollen that draws pleasure out of even the simplest touches to a nectar that brings out baser instincts. ]

iii. wildcard

( open to robot fights--with planning!--and options for other plants apart from passionfruit. open to gen for all, smut for characters 21+. if you're going for smut and we haven't discussed it already, please pm or leave a comment here so we can iron things out. )

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[ Maybe she doesn't look dressed for a fight, but neither does he. This isn't so formal, anyway. They're here to test one another out. That requires little but weapons and the ability to read an opponent. He anticipates a little scraping and bruising, as with any good spar, but looks forward to it.

Geralt pushes himself up onto his knees, then gets to his feet, picking up his own sheathed sword from the grass. It's the steel sword only, the silver stored away back at his camp with the rest of his things. No need to bring it out today. ]

Don't think that means I'll go easy on you.

[ His lips stretch a little wider into a more obvious smile, though like most of his expressions, there is something muted about it.

He draws his sword slowly, letting the scabbard fall from his hand back to the ground. Holding the hilt loosely, he lays the blade flat across the palm of his other hand to display it. It's a pretty weapon, with runes running the length along the fuller, a braided guard, and a wolf's head snarling at the pommel, identical to the medallion he wears. But it shows signs of use as well, though well-made and meticulously cared for. Hardly a show piece. ]

Think this will hold up?

[ He nods to Diana's sword, curious already just from looking at the hilt. ]

I would never want you to.

[Though she's simply stating a fact, there is a hint of a challenge in her voice. She's found that men tend to underestimate her time and again, and while it's annoying, it has certainly worked in her favor over the past hundred years. Often, unnecessarily. But she doesn't want Geralt to underestimate her; she wants him to fight her on equal footing. Well, as equal as she can give him. She isn't about to unleash the entirety of her divine strength on him, after all.

She spends a moment admiring his blade, noting the runes (which she doesn't recognize, strangely) and the intricate guard. It's a fine piece, and she thinks Antiope would have loved to see it. Then she draws her own sword, tossing the sheath to the grass. She offers it forward as well, laying the flat of the blade against her forearm and holding it out for him to see. Her weapon, too, has clearly seen many years of use, but its edge is sharp and true. It isn't the Godkiller, but the Sword of Athena; she spent many years tracking the ancient weapon down as a replacement for the one Ares destroyed.]

I think so. Will mine?

[ Geralt, at least, isn't the type to underestimate woman warriors. He's met and fought alongside some incredible ones, and even besides, he knows how to estimate skill. The way Diana moves, the way she handles her blade, even sheathed, show him that she knows what she's doing.

And when he gets to see the sword itself, he's convinced. He lowers his own to his side as he steps in to admire hers more closely. It's both beautiful and sturdy, and--likewise--decorated with symbols that are unfamiliar to him. ]

Don't think it'll be a problem.

[ He leans in to look at the portrait inlay near the crossguard: a woman in profile. The work is stunning. ]

Damn. Impressive.

[Diana would be embarrassed if she realized it, but she's preening just a little bit over his admiration of her blade. She can't remember the last time she spoke with someone who had a true appreciation for a well-crafted melee weapon, and she can't help but smile. She can already feel a familiar excitement snaking through her veins, and she's eager to start their spar.]

It's a blade that was worth the trouble to find.

[A story for another time, she thinks. Diana leans down a little, almost to the level where he's looking at her crossguard, and cocks an eyebrow.]

Is show-and-tell over?

[ That tease at a larger story makes him immediately curious, but Geralt is also eager to begin their spar. He wants to see Diana move with that blade in her hand. No doubt that alone will make this worthwhile. Besides, a story can always be told later, after they've finally exhausted themselves.

Her playfulness inspires a little in return, including a slightly lopsided grin as he tilts his head, meeting her gaze squarely across the blade between them. ]

I'd say so.

[ When he straightens up he rolls his shoulders once, then shifts his grip on the hilt of his sword. ]

Usually fight until someone yields. Don't worry about cuts and bruises. I heal fast.

[Diana shifts back just to give them both a little room. She doesn't feel jittery, exactly, but there's certainly an undeniable excitement building in her chest. There's something about Geralt that tells her she doesn't have to hold back the way she normally might; she'd noticed it the moment they'd met. She will at first, of course. Diana needs to get a feel for exactly how much of her strength he can handle before she really lets herself go. It's only fair.

Her lips curl into a smirk at the word yield, but she nods in agreement. The only time Diana has ever yielded a fight was in the early centuries of her training, when she was trying to catch up to her sisters. It's been millennia since she's stopped a fight before someone else has.

Antiope always said her competitive spirit would get her in trouble some day.]

So do I.

[She doesn't mention that unless his sword is enchanted somehow (which, honestly, it might be), the blade probably wouldn't be able to pierce her skin in the first place. Perks of being a demigod.

She takes her own stance, sword in one hand, the other slightly raised, weight on the balls of her feet. She gestures to him, offering him the first move. She wants to see what he can do.]

[ Geralt too takes walks backward several paces, putting enough space between them to give him room to assess and maneuver. It's good to know that Diana has similar healing abilities. Not only does it let him know that he doesn't have to worry so much about injuring her, but also hints at what kind of strength she might possess. It only makes him more eager to begin, to test that for himself.

With a nod to show his understanding, he settles into his own stance. He holds his sword two-handed, left arm crossed in front of his body and the blade perpendicular. His boots slide over the grass as he takes one sideways step, and then another, before he lunges with a wide swing, bringing his blade up and over in an arc.

Though Geralt is significantly faster than a normal human, he telegraphs the move enough that he doesn't actually expect the blow to connect. He isn't trying to hit her, but to test her reaction and gauge how much of his own strength and speed he should be using. Geralt is always light on his feet, but when he fights, he might as well be dancing. ]

[She watches him move, noting the way he holds his blade and the sure way he steps. Though she'd already been convinced of his skill the moment she'd seen his sword, it's always a pleasure to be proven correct. He's clearly had years of training--perhaps decades. It's been a while since Diana has encountered someone with this level of experience. Honestly, it's exhilarating.

He moves, and so does she. Diana offers him the same courtesy he did her, making it obvious that she's going to parry his blow; but it's clear that her reflexes and speed are greater than an average human's. She slows herself, just enough so a mortal's eyes could track her movements, if barely.

And when their blades connect, she doesn't so much as budge. Her arm holds steady against the weight of his swing, and she flashes him a grin.]

Have I passed your test?

[ Even as she makes her parry obvious, Diana moves with a fluency and speed that excites him. And when their blades clash, he can feel her strength, solid and immovable. It's a pleasant surprise. Thrilling, even. Geralt can feel his heart rate accelerating, his slow pulse beating faster.

He hasn't met many people who can match him like this--not many who aren't witchers, at least. ]

Yeah, [ he breathes, glancing appreciatively at flex of her arm muscles. ] Aced it.

[ His eyes are bright as he slides his blade away from hers, the sound of metal edges grating as he darts back with a quick turn on the ball of his foot, almost like a pirouette. He only pauses for half a second before he's moving in again, this time unworried about the speed or power behind his swing as his sword flashes up from his side in a vertical slash. ]

[Diana can feel the adrenaline spike that only comes from battle. Though this is just a spar, that doesn't make it less real. Antiope had taught her to treat every fight seriously, as if it was life-or-death. If Diana isn't actively teaching someone how to fight, that is exactly how she sees spars, this one included.

Her smile doesn't fade, but instead of that teasing hint, it's now sharper, the grin of battle. The sound of their swords is music, and each of his moves a veritable dance. Diana moves with him, a counterpoint, bringing her blade up in another parry. She can feel the increase in his strength as their swords clash, and she exhales what almost sounds like a laugh.

This time, she goes on the offensive, pushing her weight against their crossed blades in an attempt to force him back. And, with the space, she pulls back enough to swing her own sword, a diagonal slash, aimed from hip to shoulder.]

[ Geralt, too, is grinning outright by now, lips curled back as he allows himself to let go, to move and react the way he would if they were real opponents. Rather than engage in crossing blades again, the witcher puts his energy into swiping back, deflecting so that he can dance away again. The toe of his boot scrapes along the grass, nudges one of the small, strange plants that have cropped up in the area. He hardly acknowledges it, concentrating solely on Diana. But barely a moment later there's a sharp sting in his right forearm, too small and too concentrated for it to be a cut. ]

Fuck--

[ He hisses a curse and takes a step back, putting some distance between them while he finds out why.

There's a small burr embedded in his skin--thin but with long spikes, and slender, almost like a dart. He picks it out carefully with two fingers, then tosses it away with a frown before he looks back at Diana. ]

Sorry. Had no idea these damn plants could sting. [ Despite the strange tingling heat emanating from the spot where the dart had broken skin, Geralt rolls his shoulders and adjusts his grip, determined to continue. ] Let's keep going.

[He moves with a grace she's rarely seen outside Themyscira, and Diana finds another moment to appreciate the way he moves. She wishes, not for the first time, that she was able to return home so she might tell her sisters of people like Geralt, like Clark. She would even risk her mother's displeasure and bring them upon Themyscira's shores, if she could. But those are thoughts for another time, when her attention can be divided. Right now, her sole focus is Geralt. So when he takes that step back, she stops her advance.

She sees the burr when he pulls it out, and a frown crosses her lips. She's had a bad feeling about these plants since they sprouted, but most of them seem harmless enough, if undeniably strange. When he gives the go-ahead, she nods, conscious to side-step the plant he'd just disturbed, not noticing other, smaller ones hidden in the grass nearby.]

Right.

[And the word has hardly passed her lips before she's dashing forward again, sword coming across her body horizontally.]

[ And just like that, they pick up where they left off. Geralt raises his blade again to parry Diana's strike, feels her power in the strength of her swing. It's exhilarating. But his blood is pumping faster and hotter, even more so than it would in regular combat. The spot on his arm where the burr had stuck is no longer the only part of his body that feels unnaturally warm. It's quickly begun to radiate.

Still Geralt tries to concentrate. As he counters, pushes back, he finds himself looking more at the lines of Diana's body than her stance or the position of her blade, a mistake he'd usually never find himself making even with an opponent as attractive as this one. His head clouds quickly and he blinks hard in an attempt to clear it, to no effect.

With a grunt he's pushed off balance, and he has to twirl away to right himself. With a witcher's extensive list of immunities and slower pulse, it's very rare to be affected by something this quickly, but what else could be the cause but the dart? ]

Damn. [ He curses under his breath, then addresses Diana. ] Should move away from here. There's something wrong with those plants.

[She can sense the change in him, though she doesn't know what has caused it. At first, things are as they were--they trade blows and parries, pushing each other back and forth. But then he seems to lose himself in his own mind or somewhere else, and she gets him off balance with a move he should have avoided.

She steps back to give him some room to recover. Her heel brushes against one of the plants she doesn't see, and one of its barbs lodges in her ankle. She doesn't notice at first, the pain small and her mind focused on their fight. Another step and it's been dislodged, but the unknown damage has already been done.

When he suggests moving away, she lowers her arms, shoulders relaxing. She feels warm now, but doesn't think much of it; he's giving her more of a workout than she's had in a while, and honestly, it feels good.]

Okay. Do you have another place in mind?

[Luckily, most of the island is still undeveloped, so it shouldn't be too hard to find another suitable area.]

[ While the plant's effects are noticeable enough to distract him, Geralt doesn't want to halt their spar over it when he still feels otherwise fine, glad and excited about how easily Diana matches him. He takes a slow, deep breath, blinking hard to focus his vision. He's a witcher; surely this will pass soon enough. ]

Yeah. There's another open space like this near where I've been staying.

[ Geralt goes ahead and grabs his scabbard where it had been discarded on the ground nearby and sheathes his sword. The day is warm and he's already worked up a sweat from their activities so far. ]

[Diana rolls her shoulders, trying to shake off a restless feeling that starts to crawl through her veins. She's just eager to fight him, she thinks. Dark eyes trace the line of his arm, his back as he reaches for the scabbard. Yes, the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes how much she wants to see just what he can do with whatever power it is he has.

The thought doesn't seem strange. She's always been curious about other people's abilities.

After retrieving her own sheath, she moves to follow him, falling into step close to his side without thinking. The heat between them is probably from their short bout. It must be.]

It isn't too far, is it? I was just starting to get warmed up.

[ Shaking his head, Geralt is quick to reassure her. ]

Few more minutes this way.

[ He understands her impatience; he doesn't think he can wait long either. There's adrenaline pounding through his body, and coupled with anticipation it makes him restless. ]

That was you just warming up? [ A small, wry smile flickers across his mouth as he glances toward Diana and finds he can't look away again. ] I might be in trouble.

[The relief that floods her when he says it will only be a few minutes' walk seems... out of place. She must really be restless for a fight. Not unheard of, but it usually doesn't hit her this hard.

Her gaze catches his, and she doesn't break to look anywhere else either. Something about his eyes holds her there. Something about him. Now that her mind has wandered, she has to work to reign it back in. She manages--barely.]

Believe me, you are.

[She's teasing, mostly. But there's an undertone to her voice, something a little darker and more hungry. She doesn't exactly now where it comes from, but she doesn't try to take it back, either.]

[ He likes the sound of that promise. With it hanging heavy between them, Geralt leads Diana up one block and down the next to another grassy area, this one in front of a row of half dilapidated houses. It's a much smaller area than the park had been, but thankfully absent any strange plants.

By the time they arrive he's almost desperate to start again--anything to get moving, to have an outlet for the adrenaline pounding through him. To get near her. ]

This work?

[ It's clearly good enough for him, as he's already unsheathing his blade again. ]

[Her control on where her thoughts wander is slipping, and her pace slows just enough to put her a step behind him. Her gaze keeps straying to scan the breadth of his shoulders, to trace the line of his ass and thighs. Assessing his fitness, is what she repeats in her head, and she won't admit it's not entirely the truth.

Diana gives the clearing a cursory glance, but she doesn't really take any part of it in. Her eyes are already back on him, and she's reaching for the hilt of her sword just as he does.]

It's perfect.

[This time, she doesn't let him move first. She dashes towards him, heart pounding in her chest, blade raised to slash across his chest.]

[ She's perfect. He can barely get out of the way of that slash, which is saying something. He has to jump back with all his speed and agility, and even then only has time to react on instinct when his blade moves in an upward swing back at her.

There is no part of him that is holding back now. He couldn't, not if he wanted to go toe to toe with her for even a few blows. The intensity, somehow, has risen from a simmer to a boil, and Geralt's artificially slow heartbeat is now pounding rapidly in his chest.

He can't see an end to this that doesn't involve him on his back in the grass, but he doesn't care. His body thrums with adrenaline, bright and immediate, a need to show her that he's worthy to--to--

To what? ]

[Diana can feel the change in him, the shift from testing their limits to giving his all. It's invigorating, almost intoxicating. She can't say yet how much of a match he might be for her if she was using her full strength, but she feels confident about letting go of some of her restraint, too. Her swings come faster, her footwork more swiftly. He's a master of this art, there's no doubt about it, and the rush she feels from acknowledging it makes her feel heady. And distracted.

His sword nicks her shirt as she spins away, slicing through the fabric as if it's the finest gauze. Diana puts enough distance between then so she can glance down at the hole, a smile spreading over her lips, both elated and almost savage.

The bottom half of the shirt rips easily as she tears it away, not wanting to give him anything to grab on to (she tells herself), before lunging forward once more. This time, her attacks are more precise, quick slices instead of broad swings, as if she's trying to return the favor.]

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(open) wind's howling

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