#I just like this blurry filter I can't stop using it :D

[pudgybun]

Da face of someone who need burgers and pizza and sushi real bad !!!!!

[blumas-skypics]

I know the image is all blurry and it's hard to see, but that was the intention :D As I said before, I love when a place gets red tinted when a shard eruption happens, so I always try to get pictures. What I haven't mentioned tho, is that Golden Wasteland is my absolute favorite place when it gets red and super foggy. Yes, I know you can't see a thing but that's the best part in my opinion (⁠｡⁠◕⁠ ‿⁠ ◕⁠｡⁠)

I don't think anyone would like to listen to my rant about Golden Wasteland in red filter, but sadly, God created Tumblr and gave me access to it, so bear with me 🙏🏻 Anyways, my love for red GW is mostly because of the lore the game has. I think most sky played must know by now, but GW used to be a very prosperous and wealthy place, –similar to Daylight Prairie in flora– and GW was theoretically (this is only speculation) a merchant realm. That was until the war broke off and the place got completely destroyed. Theoretically Golden Wasteland has this name because it used to be a golden land, but now it's just a wasteland.

Sorry, I got off topic, anyways- Think about it, GW is a place where a war happened. And we know from AURORA's concert that the war was a real bloodbath (even if we didn't see any blood) and at least hundreds of people must have died in pain, agony and misery. I'm not religious, but having the dead, especially angry dead in your yard is never a good idea. These people either died fighting, or were 'casualties', so if their resentment made the realm get more red, wouldn't it make sense? If their resentment made the real get foggy, either because the souls trapped in the soil want more dead, or because they want to stop people from coming, wouldn't it also make sense?

I know canonically there's no such thing as lingering resentful spirits, but tbh, this is my personal headcanon: The people that died at GW as a result of war and pollution are still there. Unable to move on to Eden due to their hatred and resentment. But they don't have the power to do anything to the realm on their own, so when a shard eruption happens, they basically get a little help from the Eden — a place that's filled with negativity and corruption; corruption that seeks to spread,so why not use the damaged souls at Golden Wasteland? (Do keep in mind that this is not even a theory, just a little headcanon I have for entertainment)

Also, GW is way more scary when it's foggy, so that's also cool as hell lol

[aloe-casia]

With the full fury of summer mercilessly descending upon us again, I can't help but think how our mostly northern hero would fare if he was to go further south than he's ever been. What with Geralt's milky white complexion and heavy armour, wonder what would happen? :D

Honestly, I could write a whole STORY out of this prompt, but I had to limit myself to under 2,000 words. Enjoy!!

----

Before Geralt had left Kaer Morhen for the first time, Vesemir had warned him. He had been warned, and yet he had continued South anyways, so really Geralt had no one to blame but himself for the current situation he found himself in. Don’t go past Toussaint, Vesemir had told him. At least not for the first year, while he was still healing and his skin and hair was still adapting to its recent significant loss of pigment as a result of the Trials. And damned if he shouldn’t have been more careful, followed Vesemir’s advice to the letter. But here he was, a Northerner by blood, still healing from his second bout of Trials, all white skin and pale hair under the beating, harsh sun of Korathan desert. He had wanted to see Zerrikania, wanted to experience the legendary warriors and the great sand plains for himself. It was a foolish dream, he had known that before he even set out. But a recent contract to hunt down several werewolves in Cintra had left his pockets heavy with silver, possibly the heaviest they had ever been, and he had thought it was fair to indulge himself, just this once. Vesemir had warned him against indulgence, too. From now on, he would obey Vesemir’s every warning. If he lived, of course.

The air was hot, stiflingly so, and Geralt could feel his chest constricting under his leather armour. He couldn’t take it off, though. Vesemir had warned him against ever taking it off, and after ignoring Vesemir’s previous warnings had led to this shit situation in the first place, Geralt had decided never to ignore the fencing master’s advice again. Besides, he had nowhere to put it. He had left Roach at an inn in the mountains, worrying for her health in the heat. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he should have worried more for his own.

Achingly, Geralt sat himself down against a rock. His pale skin was hot to the touch, burning, boiling, and he felt so ill. He had stopped sweating a while ago, now his skin was just hot and dry, his mouth so dry that it was getting difficult to open, even to breathe. There was a rolling in his stomach that at first Geralt thought was just an illusion; he was probably delirious, until he ended up puking all over the rock before he really even realized it was going to happen. He felt miserable, clammy, and every muscle in his body was pulled taut, like he had been stretched out to dry in the sun. Perhaps he could stop here, rest a bit, take off his armour. Then he could gather his strength enough to turn around, go back to the mountains, get some water.

Geralt’s fingers were trembling and dry; he couldn’t even find the clasps on his bracers, let alone begin thinking about taking off the rest of his armour. He would roast out here, he thought. Like the chickens Vesemir had cooked for him and Eskel during the winter, roasted over a spit with the skin on. Ye Gods, he must truly be delirious to be comparing himself to that.

For a long while, Geralt faded in and out of consciousness. His head ached abominably, and he couldn’t stop vomiting, even though there was nothing left in his stomach except for acid, which made his dry throat and mouth hurt all the more. Every muscle in his body pulled tight and cramped, the way they sometimes did after a hard day training or a difficult fight. Geralt felt as though he was being mummified alive, something he had heard of the Zerrikanians doing with unwelcome travellers. He supposed he was saving them the trouble, as he gritted his teeth and rode out another bout of excruciating muscle cramps. For the first time since his Trials, Geralt wished to pass out, to relieve the pain, if even for a bit. The light hurt his eyes, and he was so damnably thirsty.

----

When Geralt awoke again, there was a dappled pattern of light falling across his face, leaving some parts of it uncomfortably hot while others were blissfully cooled by shade. His skin ached and burned, and every muscle in his body was painful and weak. He trembled.

A dark hand appeared above him, holding what looked like a clay cup, although Geralt couldn’t be sure. His vision flickered and wavered in front of him like a mirage. There was a voice, instructing him gently, but he couldn’t understand what it said. He realized belatedly that he was no longer wearing his armour or his clothes, just laying under a blanket made of scratchy, itchy wool. The hand hovered above him, and dripped a little water between his lips, which he licked up pitifully. Geralt felt like his skin was cracking all over, breaking at the seams. Someone was washing his face with a cool cloth, and to his eternal embarrassment he whimpered in relief. His whole body ached, and he felt so very ill. Nausea came on unbidden, and he felt someone lifting his head so he could retch over the side of what must have been a bed. However, he was simply too sick to care, too sick to even really understand what was happening. His consciousness filtered in and out, jolting him back to awareness with every loud noise or strong smell that assaulted his senses. The whole tent, or wherever this place was, smelled strongly of highly aromatic spices Geralt had only ever encountered in exotic markets during his travel in the North. They were abrasive on his sensitive nostrils, and kept jerking him back awake. The cloth ceiling above him shifted and swayed. He wasn’t sure, but he might have been sick again. He was too fevered, too tired. The last thing he thought was that he was never going to take Vesemir’s advice for granted again.

----  

When Geralt awoke again, he was alone. The tent ceiling which had dominated his blurry vision for the uncounted previous hours was gone, replaced instead by a starry sky which stretched for miles in every direction, or at least as far as Geralt could turn his head before his neck began to ache horrifically. He licked his lips, and found someone had left a water skin at his side, which he sipped from gratefully, dragging his sore, exhausted body to a sitting position. He vaguely remembered there being a rock, back when he had first truly become ill, and he was surprised to find that same rock now bracing his back. When he scented the air and glanced around, there was no sign of who had set up the tent, nor left the water skin. Geralt was utterly alone under the canopy of stars.

Normally, Geralt would have wondered what had happened, who had helped him and then left before he could so much as give his thanks. But he was still too ill, his head spun too much, and he was damnably thirsty. Every muscle in his body was trembling and weak, a sign of the many spasms he remembered experiencing. The stars began to fade and the sun rose, and Geralt just lay against the rock, trying to let the cool night air soothe his burning, pale skin. His neck was burnt from the sun, as were his hands, and although they would heal quickly the blistering skin was uncomfortable.

Eventually, he felt a bit less ill, a bit less dizzy, and managed to haul himself to his feet and limp off, back towards the mountains, towards Roach, away from the first and last time he would indulge his own selfish desire to see something more than what he knew.