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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
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."