dorian pavus (necromantical) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2017-09-05 15:46:00 |
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Endless amounts of paperwork when you were an attorney - yes, endless, and that wasn’t even an exaggeration. When it came to litigation, there were occasionally those instances where court dates could not, would not, under any circumstances barring an atomic blast or Rumpty Dumpty’s resignation, be moved. Because, really, Dorian tried. But the judge would not budge, and he explained all that to Mr. Grumpy Detective when he phoned and insisted he needed to go over the exhibits and prepare his expert testimony, all for a hate crime case. Transgender girl (she’d only been about seventeen) killed by a man she once dated - a nasty case, to be sure, but Dorian was confident this could garner justice for her family, especially with laws in place that recently had been expanded to cover victims attacked because of their gender identity. It was simply that Geralt sounded like shit. But Dorian agreed to come by anyway, and he drove all the way out to no-man’s land in his Audi while wearing the latest in Roberto Cavalli. Honestly, why did Geralt have a serial killer’s abode? You could hide an upteempth number of bodies out here. Anyway, Ayurveda was sort of a system of alternative medicine that emerged in India, and while Dorian had actual doctors in his family - plenty of them - he also did hold some stock in the remedies that wouldn’t kill you to try, so why not? Some aspects were more scientific than others, but if it made someone feel better then that was the goal. He had a few ideas in mind if Geralt needed a boost (and from what the man sounded like on the phone, he was in dire need of one). So, juggling his box full of files, papers, forms and ingredients for a Special Blend™, he shifted it all to rest against one arm and knocked on the door. “Really, if you just want me to come in, I can,” he called. “As long as nothing mauls my pretty face once I enter.” Funny, but not. Geralt didn’t like much of the public, was the thing - ironic with his career in public service, but he preferred to live quietly and privately among nature, away from busy streets and the smell of gasoline. Probably had to do with how this other life he’d been seeing through his sleep (how was anyone supposed to get any rest when plagued with this bullshit, by the way) as he traveled dirt paths, village to village, town to town, city to city at the mercy of the Earth and all that crawled on it. He had a dislike for cities there, too, preferring the quiet mountains of Kaer Morhen and the background sound of waterfalls. He also thought a lot about them when he was neck deep in his toilet bowl, barfing out his insides, and living in his bathroom for two full days. The Trial of Grasses was a gruesome change brought on by a specific concoction of alchemical ingredients, subjected to boys at a very young age to create witchers. It was one of the first things he recalled and it was the last thing he expected that would happen so soon, but it had happened - it wreaked havoc on his nervous system, the added mutagens of different beasts changing his entire physiology for physical ‘benefits,’ mutations of the eyes for better vision, the complete transformation of hormones and the breakdown and reconstruction of bone marrow. It all started with a fever and chills, then coughing became vomiting, and blood gushed from the nose like a faucet. Tremors, seizure-like spasms, fading in and out of consciousness. And as extreme as it sounded, Geralt knew he’d survive it somehow - he was one of the very few that survived the changes, and the only one that survived the additional experiments after that which rendered his hair colorless. At the tail end of it he was weak but responsive. Enough to file a leave of absence through work under the condition he would answer things from home, enough to answer Ruby’s call (but not enough to really explain what happened, and his apology was admittedly shit), enough to text Garcian Smith with questions like what’s the best chemical to get vomit and blood out of bathroom grout. His bones ached, his eyes were adjusting to the newfound sensitivity, his stomach was practically hollow and he hadn’t a clue how to proceed aside from resting so he could figure things out, eventually. He hadn’t wanted visitors but there were obligations he couldn’t dismiss with a clear conscious - so today he got up from bed. Today he cleaned, scrubbed himself down, stretched his sore muscles, ate something. Today he trimmed his beard, neatly combed his bleach-white hair into a ponytail, and today he answered the door. As a mutant, officially. As a witcher. “Before you say anything,” Geralt warned, his face showing expression equivalent to blank stone that was more likely to become annoyed than amused. “I’m aware, Dorian. Fully aware of what I look like. Come in.” Well. This was going to take a little more than simply brewing a cup of tea. Dorian’s response was a sloooooooooow eyebrow raise, lifting a hand to stroke his mustache in a contemplative way. Yes, mmhmm. Uh-huh. Fully aware. He completelybelieved Geralt had looked into a mirror and realized that he personified a dumpster fire. The saddest part about this? It was probably way worse earlier, bless the man’s porcupine heart. “Of course,” he replied, stepping into the house. “Are you up to drinking something though? I brought along the ingredients. Something to help, just a bit, as we discuss things like our upcoming court date.” He went into the kitchen, turning and waiting for indication that he could morph himself into gay Mary Poppins in here. And Dorian, a personified migraine - the direct opposite on the personality spectrum of Geralt, but the man did good work, knew his shit, and had balls made of steel dipped in glitter (not that he ever wondered about his testicles, but that was an accurate description of the man with the gratuitous mustache, he’d argue). “That depends what it is,” sighed and alright, he’d surrender the freedom of the kitchen over to his capable hands. Signified by the dismissive wave of a hand. It was a bright, open area, the kitchen - before Ciri it was a dismal part of the house, nothing but processed frozen foods and takeout menus. Slipping into the role of father had him expand on the culinary options and he’d kept up with it throughout the years. Most of the herbs potted in the windows were projects, actually. Geralt crossed his arms, hip leaning into the kitchen island. “Do me a favor, hold the roofies.” It was a joke said without a smile, without a chuckle - just a coldness, like a sheet of ice had taken over his face. “Oh, if you insist,” Dorian pouted - wait, that was a joke from Geralt, right? He sounded serious as a heart attack which was...strange. Something had happened (obviously), and that ‘something’ went beyond a clear hair color change and the addition of what looked like reptilian eyes. Those weren’t contact lenses. Setting the box of paperwork on the counter, he began bustling about to work his miracle anti-nausea and anti-feeling-like-shit magic. “So what exactly happened?” he wanted to know. “Considering I can now create ice pretty well, like a Disney princess, let’s just say I fully understand that certain things do happen here.” He called this concoction ‘ginger lemonade’ but it took the juice of one entire lemon and a shit ton of turmeric (the taste required some getting used to), honey, cinnamon, a couple other dashes of this and that, and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Though watching him tap the small jar...it was more than a pinch, shall we say. “Like a Disney princess,” deadpanned the detective, both eyebrows lifted a little - now that was hair not affected too much by his changes, as they were visible and darker than the rest of him. “Might have to forcibly remove you if you start serenading me with a musical note, Pavus, but if you’ve gone Ice Queen then you know that certain things did happen.” Geralt knew he had to face the music of the public at some point, and while there was a part of him dreading the scrutiny of his appearance there was also part of him that didn’t want to hide it - this is what he was, flesh and bone. An abomination, a freak of nature. He was the subject of high criticism and utter hatred for regular humans from what he dreamt, but he imagined here most would think he was going through a midlife crisis trying to look ‘metal’ (another slang for hardcore these days, the fuckin’ youth). “There’s a trade of monster slayers that I’ve been dreaming about,” he began to explain - grumpily. “These pre-existing ones make deals with families, take a young boy and make him drink a mix of herbs and endure trials that change the entire physiology so we can have an edge in combat. Most die. A few don’t. The process is painful, but it’s over.” He was still reeling a bit, though he was a million times better than his wrecked self spewing bile all over his bathroom tile. How cheery. Dorian made a face, though it didn’t sound too terribly different than young children being stolen from their home to be tossed into the Circles and have the magic beaten out of them - forced into it, was the main common trend here. “And so that’s what you do, slay monsters?” he clarified. “It’s a profession that seems to be in high demand these days. Though my Disney princess qualities only extend to ice magic - freezing zombies in sheets of ice, apparently. I haven’t perfected the ice wall yet. Might be able to work with some fire.” He hadn’t really tried, nor had he attempted the necromancy. Not yet. “It’s a bit frustrating, since I’m such a brilliant mage there - perfectly alright with perfecting spells to call upon the aid of spirits from the Fade, but detesting blood magic. My father tried to cure me of my unfortunate-for-him gayness using this method. I imagine it would have had the same effects you just endured, had he gone through with it. Here,” Dorian handed over the mug of vile, curing concoction, “Drink up.” It wouldn’t taste like a chocolate souffle, but it would help. Witchers were capable of some magic tricks (‘signs,’ basic spells to use against tricky beasts but nothing extravagant, and he hadn’t even attempted that at all), but personally? He remained wary of the concept. Manipulations of time, space, portals and teleportations (he hated those last two, fucking hated them), all the tricks and deceptions and the addiction to power. “Slay monsters,” he echoed with a shrug. “Break curses. Not that I know how to do either of those yet, I’ve just got the looks of whatever the hell I’m supposed to be now.” Geralt took the drink with reluctance. Sniffed it warily, too, and from scent alone he was able to tell he wouldn’t even like the taste. If this yielded negative side effects he was sure none of it was as terrible as what he recently endured, so he drank it all to the very last drop - quick like taking a shot or ripping off a bandaid. The quicker he went through it, the quicker it was over. “Ah, thanks -” There was a clear grimace, and ignored the unpleasantness that tickled his tastebuds to process what the hell he just said. “You - what kind of magic is supposed to cure the gay out of someone?” Yeah, he heard ‘blood magic’ clear as day but he imagined a sacrificial ritual of virgins and livestock to some bitch boy figure of a Heterosexual God. “The rest will come, I’m sure - you’ll be slaying monsters and breaking curses all over this place,” Dorian chuckled lightly, followed by the barest bit of a schadenfreude sort of grin. Heh. “There we go, down the hatch - bet you’ll feel better than you have in days, after that kicks in.” Indian home remedies - they put a lot of stock in the power of spices and things like that, and really, it hadn’t steered him wrong yet. Taking the empty glass, he moved to rinse it out, shrugging. “Ritual sacrifice, I’m sure - putting many people through actual hell,” he said about the elusive cure. “It may also be mind control of some sort - blood magic can do that. Make someone forget that they prefer cock, you know? As long as it meant breeding with the woman he’d picked out for me, my father didn’t care.” Luckily it hadn’t gone to plan, but balls. That had soured Dorian’s relationship with the Pavus patriarch, to put it lightly. Of all the things to do with magic - but Geralt couldn’t say he was terribly surprised, knowing what he knew now. “Picturing you with a woman almost makes me nauseous,” he snorted, burly arms crossed over his chest again. His shirt was snug but not unpleasantly, and he fashioned comfortable sweatpants. “You must have been part of an important family, then, if your father was so concerned about you continuing the genetic line. What stopped him from trying to ‘cure’ you?” Change of heart, he hoped, but he also had little faith in anyone who wanted to use arcane knowledge as a form of gay aversion brainwash. Dorian didn’t seem like he’d take the attempt laying down complacent, either - the witcher wholeheartedly expected him to fight tooth and nail against that oppressive horseshit. Honestly, the thought of being with a woman made him nauseated too - it had happened, of course, once or twice. But it only took a couple of times for Dorian to realize he didn’t care for it at all. “Oh, yes, we were very important in the political arena,” he snorted. “Mages are revered in the Imperium, where I have dreams of being from - you have various classes, kind of a hierarchy in society, and the Altus are the ruling class. That’s me.” Or what would be him, if he’d gone along with everything - but it didn’t appear as if that was going to happen. Dorian was far too stubborn to simply ‘go along’ with much of anything, let’s be honest. He needed to be calling the shots and making his own decisions. “The long and short of it is, me and my father got into a fight about his attempt to convert me into the straight son he always wanted - and I left home,” he continued, moving to the kitchen table to begin unpacking the paperwork they would need. He’d make this as painless as possible. “With nary a penny to my name, mind you. Now I’ve joined up with this Inquisition - since a hole in the sky that spews demons seems to be a worldwide problem, yes?” Geralt respected that. Why try and live a lie when it wasn’t even really living at that point - but he was sure the aforementioned gloryhole in the sky dumping demons into the world would keep him busy. “Makes me glad my role in the world’s a solitary one,” he rasped out. “I wouldn’t do well in high status - too many expectations, too many banquets, too many dress codes.” Not to mention he lacked polite social skills, but he could (unsurprisingly) see Dorian in the role of a noble socialite if it weren’t for the bigotry. He had the flair and charisma down perfectly. Sometimes annoyingly. It made him, nonetheless, entertaining in the courtroom. Which was the purpose of today’s visit. Work. He hadn’t the mind for it, but duty called, didn’t it? “Thanks for coming to play a quasi-visiting nurse, by the way. It’s nice to remember that you’re remotely likeable sometimes.” Yes, another one of his deadpan jokes with a face that could make people question whether or not it was actually an insult. It’s not like he’d forgotten how to smile or laugh, but those expressions didn’t come all that naturally anymore - and it was going to make social interactions that much more dreadful for him. Dorian could just picture Geralt at some sort of social function and making an attempt at a dry quip - yet if he looked like he’d just choked someone out, the humor might be lost on the crowd and the response would be crickets. Is it terrible that he found that amusing in and of itself? “A dashing nurse, at that,” he noted, leafing through the papers. “Do monster slayers of your caliber tend to lose what little sense of humor they had? Because that’s going to get interesting.” Then a nice fat stack of documents were set in front of the newly-inducted witcher. Unfortunately, the mundanity of life prevailed - there were still monsters (of a sort) out there, and Dorian hoped to put the one responsible for murdering a transgender child away behind bars for awhile. “Copies of what will be introduced in court - letters, emails, handwriting analysis. A list of evidence we’ll have you show the jury - and I also took the liberty of preparing potential questions you may be asked during cross-examination, because I know the defense attorney and know how his prick mind works. Don’t worry, you can just study that one when you feel better.” Goody. Geralt loved pricks. He could be a prick right back, too, courtroom etiquette be damned. With his stomach no longer much of a wreck (that little bit of nausea had subsided, maybe it had to do with that mix Dorian put together?) he prepared a pot of robust coffee for their meeting - he could use some caffeine in his system to pep him up, and he hoped it wouldn’t fuck with him much. “Oh, believe me, my humor’s there,” he countered in his own defense. All the terrible dad jokes were saved for Cirilla; everyone else got that dark, desert dry humor. “Mutations fuck with us a little, dampen our feelings - some things we don’t feel as strongly as before. I was put through the ringer a little extra than the rest.” It’s not like he ever exuded much friendliness before. Now his vibe was a little icier, a stoicism that could cross the line of cruelty if he didn’t watch it. “It’ll make court fun, I promise you. I’ll stare at this shithead defense attorney until he soils himself.” That’d be an accomplishment. It was a goal he aspired for now. But he needed this continuous routine to strive towards normalcy again - because he couldn’t hide within his home forever, and no matter what this place did to him or anyone life had to go on. For some reason, Dorian believed Geralt. Surely the scumbag’s equally scummy attorney would leave the courtroom needing to change his lacy underwear (no judgment, really!). “Now that I will look forward to,” he huffed in amusement. “It might make court proceedings go a bit faster too.” Let’s hope. No one, especially the family of a murder victim, wanted to sit in those damn seats for days staring at the back of the head of the person who killed someone they loved. “And that’s something you’re okay with - having your feelings dampened?” he inquired, watching the coffee preparations. The process of being mutated didn’t sound like something anyone should be okay with, but perhaps that was simply the way of the world, when it was crawling with monsters. Some accepted their role in the world, others were upset by what had been done to them - he knew one witcher in particular that was loud about hating what he’d been put through, how he’d been taken from his family and what he’d been turned into. Geralt immersed himself into the trade, personally. What else was there to do? There was no reversing it. “That question only really matters if I had a choice,” he answered pensively. The caffeine percolated and then, in a steady stream, filled the pot. In truth? He wasn’t. He wasn’t fond of the fact that now he was stuck in a cycle of seeing memories of another life, wasn’t fond that he had changed in ways that were not only outwardly physical bit inwardly physical, and he was not fond with how it was causing disruptions in the life he’d built for himself. In short, he was too old for this shit. “It’s more productive to figure out how to deal with what I am now than to spend useless energy being angry towards the circumstance.” Could be the mutations talking, too - Geralt of Rivia, the witcher he dreamt of being, was a particularly detached person. It didn’t mean he was completely incapable of feeling things like, say, love. Because that love for his daughter was there, despite everything. His mutations didn’t change anything about Ciri. There was hope in there for him yet, somewhere in there. “You want a cup, Princess Elsa?” he motioned to the pot. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt with the daunting paperwork you’ve brought with you.” “It still matters,” Dorian insisted. “How you feel matters, even if the chemistry in your particularly ripped body tells you that you shouldn’t feel.” At least, that was how he looked at it - and while he’d never been in love before, personally, never quite experienced it? He would put bets on how it was more powerful than whatever trials witchers endured. It was always some kind of magic, in any world. But alright, anywho. Coffee. Caffeine consumption, to plow through this paperwork he needed to have Geralt review - they’d practice the questions too, for cross-examination. It was what good lawyers did with their witnesses. “That’s Queen Elsa and yes, please. I’d love a cup - and we’ll get down to it, shall we?” Queen, right. His mistake. Geralt even mock-bowed for forgiveness before readying a cup. “Indeed, your highness.” See, funny, right? He’d even be a good host - bring all the fixings of caffeine to the table for him. Day One of trying to be normal. Couldn’t get harder than this, he hoped. |