![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Since The Iron Bull had wandered onto his camp in the woods, matters had only gotten worse.
It was as if the woods were twisting and rotting around Geralt, starting from one central location and feeding outward like a pestilence of reality itself. It affected nearly everything, but Geralt found himself more and more susceptible, more and more changed.
Soon enough, he told Nina to stop coming. That had been at about the time everything he ate had stopped satisfying. When he began looking at human flesh with needy and feral desires.
The witcher kept busy. He had to. That was the only small kindness in any of it, and even then, he felt sick and guilty at times about what he'd had to do, some of the things he'd had to put down. Geralt wasn't the only thing in the woods being twisted.
But the worst had just wrecked his camp, and nearly trampled Geralt with it. It was only luck and superior intuition which had woken him just in time.
Fleeing on wolf-swift feet, quiet as an owl, Geralt ran to the only place he thought he could turn for help. Possibly understanding.
The lights were still on at the farmhouse, though some eerie blanket of discomfort, of unnatural quiet, lay around the property. Geralt didn't know what it was, only that here, more than anywhere else, set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
He made certain that his boots made a noise as he opened the barn door, peering inside. His eyes flashed in the dark, every glimmer of light reflecting out of them again. It was no problem to find the Bull in the dark with his yellow eyes, even if he hadn't been able to follow the smell to the man. Musky, almost draconid.
Geralt cleared his throat and called to Bull in the dark. His skin was paler than it had ever been, gone from a healthy pinkish alabaster to something closer to Regis' unnatural greyish palor. He still bore the outward manifestation of his mutations, dragged out by strange magic. Long canines, sharp black claws. The general appearance of a panther waiting to pounce.
"Hey. I need you."
It was as if the woods were twisting and rotting around Geralt, starting from one central location and feeding outward like a pestilence of reality itself. It affected nearly everything, but Geralt found himself more and more susceptible, more and more changed.
Soon enough, he told Nina to stop coming. That had been at about the time everything he ate had stopped satisfying. When he began looking at human flesh with needy and feral desires.
The witcher kept busy. He had to. That was the only small kindness in any of it, and even then, he felt sick and guilty at times about what he'd had to do, some of the things he'd had to put down. Geralt wasn't the only thing in the woods being twisted.
But the worst had just wrecked his camp, and nearly trampled Geralt with it. It was only luck and superior intuition which had woken him just in time.
Fleeing on wolf-swift feet, quiet as an owl, Geralt ran to the only place he thought he could turn for help. Possibly understanding.
The lights were still on at the farmhouse, though some eerie blanket of discomfort, of unnatural quiet, lay around the property. Geralt didn't know what it was, only that here, more than anywhere else, set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
He made certain that his boots made a noise as he opened the barn door, peering inside. His eyes flashed in the dark, every glimmer of light reflecting out of them again. It was no problem to find the Bull in the dark with his yellow eyes, even if he hadn't been able to follow the smell to the man. Musky, almost draconid.
Geralt cleared his throat and called to Bull in the dark. His skin was paler than it had ever been, gone from a healthy pinkish alabaster to something closer to Regis' unnatural greyish palor. He still bore the outward manifestation of his mutations, dragged out by strange magic. Long canines, sharp black claws. The general appearance of a panther waiting to pounce.
"Hey. I need you."
no subject
It stunned the creature for a half a second -- the witcher as well. Geralt paused to shake his head and rid himself of the ringing.
It turned its great horns on the Bull, ready to make a charge for him. Geralt made a grab for the silver sword on his back, grateful for gloved fingers. He wasn't certain he could handle the blade, under the circumstances, without pain. Silver for monsters. The thought was stomach-churningly ironic.
He leaped for it, turning a fast pirouette, thin sword a razor.
The smell of death pressed in on him.
no subject
He saw Geralt move, saw Krem, smelled blood.
Bull went low. He couldn't take those antlers, but the fiend's chest was broad and open, if he could just get to it. In his urge for blood, he forgot the fiend had claws, forget it was capable of swiping at him. Bull roared frustration when claws caught his side, but he spun to get out of their grip, didn't go down.
He stepped back, eye on the fiend as he reached to feel how bad the injury was. Not too deep, but it was going to hurt the next time he went to swing the maul. The fiend was turning on Geralt and Bull tried to find Krem, tried to make sure he wasn't in the thing's line of sight.
"Watch it, Geralt," he barked, though the witcher would have a hard time missing the large creature's movement. Maybe it was slow, maybe it telegraphed its movements, but it was strong. "Krem. Krem."
no subject
Dodge, something in him said, the warning from Geralt, the instinct. Dodge. Move. You have to move.
He does the best that he can, almost an afterthought of a motion, a shuffle of things when he can manage to convince his body and mind to work in sync enough to do that for him at least.