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There was something wrong happening.
At first Geralt had avoided the woods, because it felt like that off-ness was concentrated there. The birds and insects had gone quiet at first, and soon after they'd started to flee to the forest's edges. Though autumn had barely begun, in some areas Geralt found trees turning rusty, leaves dying off.
That had been at first, and from there things had gotten wronger.
When Geralt realized what was happening, he went to the woods. He worried it had no longer become an issue of protecting himself until he managed to leave Darrow, but of protecting Darrow potentially from himself.
Whatever corruption existed in the forest, growing and spreading, it affected his body, and his mind. It had twisted itself around the witcher mutations, had expressed them in new ways, or simply more.
And so Geralt was back at his old camp. Hiding, biding time, and keeping a baleful eye on the situation. He ought to do something about it, but what? What could he do, when he didn't even understand what was happening to himself?
He sat beside the fire, hunkered over an evening meal in a foulest mood. His skin was paler than usual, dark veins standing out against the white. All of his senses screamed. He gripped his dinner in hands that had begun to end in blackened, pointed nails, that reminded Geralt too much of Regis. That was the bruxa in him, no doubt, a fact that he wanted to put little thought into, if he could avoid it.
The canines that filled his mouth too much more than they used to, those were likely more attributable to a manticore mutagen.
And the fact that he had made dinner of a squirrel, and had not felt the bother or desire to cook it, that Geralt wanted to put thought into even less.
At first Geralt had avoided the woods, because it felt like that off-ness was concentrated there. The birds and insects had gone quiet at first, and soon after they'd started to flee to the forest's edges. Though autumn had barely begun, in some areas Geralt found trees turning rusty, leaves dying off.
That had been at first, and from there things had gotten wronger.
When Geralt realized what was happening, he went to the woods. He worried it had no longer become an issue of protecting himself until he managed to leave Darrow, but of protecting Darrow potentially from himself.
Whatever corruption existed in the forest, growing and spreading, it affected his body, and his mind. It had twisted itself around the witcher mutations, had expressed them in new ways, or simply more.
And so Geralt was back at his old camp. Hiding, biding time, and keeping a baleful eye on the situation. He ought to do something about it, but what? What could he do, when he didn't even understand what was happening to himself?
He sat beside the fire, hunkered over an evening meal in a foulest mood. His skin was paler than usual, dark veins standing out against the white. All of his senses screamed. He gripped his dinner in hands that had begun to end in blackened, pointed nails, that reminded Geralt too much of Regis. That was the bruxa in him, no doubt, a fact that he wanted to put little thought into, if he could avoid it.
The canines that filled his mouth too much more than they used to, those were likely more attributable to a manticore mutagen.
And the fact that he had made dinner of a squirrel, and had not felt the bother or desire to cook it, that Geralt wanted to put thought into even less.
no subject
Bull appreciated the mages that had healed him in the past, but a lifetime of learning to be unnerved by magic and being vulnerable while it was being used on him was still uncomfortable.
And to be fair, Bull didn't even like submitting to regular healers. Stitches had always needed to track him down.
"It's taken a while to re-learn the names of plants here, and some things that I had to work with in Thedas don't even exist. But I think Dorian has seeds to plant."
Bull looked down at his leg and absently flexed his foot.
"Got hit hard in a fight. Stitches did what he could, but something didn't heal right. Happened after I lost the eye. Still my weak side." He held up his left hand, revealing that the very tips of his fourth and fifth fingers, cut off at the third knuckle.
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Geralt reconsidered, narrowing his eyes at Bull in thought. He shook the little copper cup with a stick of green wood. It was starting to form little bubbles in the water.
"Maybe not you, but a human. Got a story to share about the eye?"
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Bull knew damn well that Geralt probably wasn't the kind of guy that forgot a face. Especially not the face of a man that showed up in full armor and a maul the size of Smash. Never mind the work Krem had actually done on the kelpie itself.
But it was a good preface.
"I was with another mercenary group, Fisher's Bleeders, and we were in a border town on the edge of the Tevinter Imperium, just killing time between jobs, spending money in every place of ill repute we could find. I walk into a tavern and find a Tribune and group of Tevinter soldiers surrounding this kid they had pinned on the floor, trying to strip him."
Bull could imagine what would have happened to Krem once the soldiers discovered his secret. He hadn't known about it at the time, but it hadn't mattered to him.
"Qunari have a long-standing dislike of Vints in general, so I grabbed one of the soldiers by the arm and slammed him into a wall, and the fight broke out from there. I lost sight of the Tribune, busy killing or downing the other soldiers. Next thing I know I'm turning and a mace slams into the side of my head. No time to think about it, no time to worry about it. Grabbed the mace in one hand and the Tribune in the other, killed him."
He huffed a laugh. "Poor Krem. He's from Tevinter too; when he was in the army they'd been training him to go to Seheron, where he'd be facing Qunari. And he's shaken, looking at this half-mauled monster who's asking him if he's okay."
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As soon as the liquid in the cup began to boil, Geralt pulled it off the heat with a glove and poured it through a filter cloth into a tin mug.
He passed the liquid to Bull. It smelled strongly of anise and sweet wormwood.
"That's about when the screaming and vomiting starts, normally." Geralt sounded knowing. That Krem hadn't panicked and ran made him unusual.
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He accepted the mug and held it for a moment, just getting used to the smell.
"Burned up the warrant that I found on the Tribune, too. He deserved as fresh a start as I could give him."
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"Yeah, he did."
Geralt sounded thoughtful, and confident. He was an exceedingly good judge of character. It was, mostly, due to the mutations -- Geralt could sense and smell things that he never consciously picked up. Nevertheless, they left an impression.
"He's a good kid."
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"He's a pain in my ass," Bull said, sounding downright fond. "And a good second. When I broke off from the Bleeders, I brought him and a handful of others with me. He became my lieutenant, made sure I wasn't too much of a hard ass, and kept the rest of the Chargers in line if I had to take care of things elsewhere."
Bull eyed the jug of liquor, but he resisted the urge to dig back into it. He'd see how he did for the night.
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"Had one of those, too. Mine was coming up on his fifth century, though. And a vampire. Someone to make sure I wasn't too much of a hard-ass. Apologize for me when I was. Keep an eye on everyone, keep them safe when I had to ... take care of things."
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But that was for the best.
Bull watched Geralt start to slow down, eyelids fluttering. A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
"Crawl into your nest, Geralt. I'll make sure the fire doesn't go out."
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Standing from his spot on his log near the fire, he reached into the thick pile of blankets and skins he used for sleeping at camp. Geralt picked two of the largest out of the mess and tossed them to Bull.
He didn't have to ask if Bull would sleep; he wouldn't. He'd made that clear, confessing to Geralt about his dreams and his traumatic wake-up.
Geralt, for his worth, appreciated the chance to have someone watching over his rest.
He shuffled the bed around until it was, in fact, very close to a nest, before sitting himself down slowly in it, with a slightly stiff leg.
"There's food in the lockbox." So the bears didn't get it. "There are books in the rucksack."
Despite appearances, Geralt was an avid reader. It helped that he needed no reading light, only an elbow to prop up on, late into the night.
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Bull could do that. He didn't think he would sleep tonight, as tired as he was, so he could make sure that Geralt got the chance. He glanced toward the rucksack, taking note of where it was. He'd probably get into the books to keep his mind busy.
He should text Dorian to let him know he was alright, that he was staying out tonight to help someone else. And maybe for himself.
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"Though it might be nice to hear one in a voice that's not a trained tenor, for once."
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"I'll tell you one in Qunlat. If you don't understand the language, you won't be tempted to try to stay up to hear the end."
He almost never had any reason to speak his native tongue, and maybe it would only be in his own voice but hearing it out loud for a while might bring him comfort, too.
Maybe he would just recite the parts of the Qun that he knew. Might bring a different kind of comfort.
"Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra."