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(no subject)
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
The sound Geralt made as he settled down again made Nina feel warm. She tucked herself close to him once he'd settled, rather liking his hand on her hip.
"I don't like the idea that this is something I can't fight."
no subject
Geralt stretched a little, before melting into the warmth beneath the blankets. As much as he didn't need gentle comforts, he preferred them. The morning chill, damp, did his leg no favors. Tucked in next to a warm body, he felt pleased and somnolent. They were things that Geralt seldom achieved.
"It's a personal weakness. I know that much. I prefer simplicity, a problem I can run at with a sword like a basilisk or a griffin. Confronted with something like this, every decision seems like a bad decision. At least, it's true in my experience."
no subject
She nuzzled Geralt's chest, hiding from the morning chill.
"All that changed after the Druskelle caught me. After that, it felt like there weren't any clear and good decisions... everything was shades of not-as-bad. I was in survival mode."
no subject
Everything else was politics, which seemed to Geralt to be sinful by its very nature.
"There aren't any clear and good decisions. That's the only thing I know. All you can do is act, and never regret doing something. The only thing a person should ever regret is inaction."
no subject
She sighed and kissed a scar running across Geralt's chest. He had so many.
"I still wanted to change the world," she murmured. "Everything I saw in Fjerda made me want it differently... but I still wanted it." It felt silly to say it out loud.
no subject
He had always been in demand for other reasons than any sort of beauty.
"It's not a bad thing. Hold on to that, for the sake of the rest of us."
no subject
She lightly traced the lines of the scar, wondering at the pain he'd endured. Her own scars were few: pale ones all the way around her wrists from where her skin had been rubbed raw and then removed after being bound in rough rope for weeks on end, the tattoos on the inside of each forearm.
Healers had been able to take care of the rest of her, or she could do it herself if the injuries weren't too bad.