#ft.geralt

[wolfmyth]

[ CLOSED STARTER FOR @whtisholy - YENNEFER OF VENGERBERG: POST MAGE MURDER, TALLINN ]

A MAGE IS DEAD.

never have four simple words had such an effect on the witcher. makes his blood run cold.  a pain in his chest that comes from no sword, no spell, no blow from a monster.   he knows many mages.  has encountered magic dealers across the land, in almost every travel - from elementals, to herbologists.... summoners, transformers, time weavers, affliction givers, healers... 

but the one who springs to mind - the first name to be uttered on his tongue a rare whisper, the first face to bleed into the present, still oh so vivid.  is the chaos mage.  vivid violet hues that he has seen hazed with lust or enraged with power.  and he knows she’s here.  lingering in old buildings, claiming her place - her very own seat of at the table of the high council             ( it’s what she always wanted... more, greater, bigger, better...              influence, capacity -- p o w e r.  he has never forgotten her              words, spoken under the thrall of the djinn...                                                       ‘I want everything!’ )

he still hasn’t figured out what that is. everything.  had she found it?  after all this time. had the council finally given her all those things she so desired?  had she finally been -- sated. ( he hopes not.  not sated.  not tamed. )

but it’s because he knows she’s here that his boots tread cobbled streets, an incessant --                                                                   H U N T -because that is what he is good at.  tracking, hunting, finding.  even those things that like to evade, that wish to stay secret.  an innate gift built into his form that even the powers of a mage would find hard to replicate.  this is geralt being a witcher.  being purely focussed, driven -- being exactly what he is.  and he finds exactly what he is looking for.

or rather -- who. a sheen of midnight hair falling about slender shoulders.  a form carrying itself with the presence of oh, so many years.  and it has been a - long - time since their paths have crossed.  somehow, always when circumstance is brutal or bloody - crashing together in the middle of battles they did not start... but always finish.

this time, it seems... is no different.

but there is - something of a relief. A MAGE IS DEAD.  but not her.  he finds it hard to be sorry for  the loss of the other when he finds that she lives.

and she’s probably doing something - important. frankly, he doesn’t care.

and if anyone knew the witcher, they might be surprised when the word is uttered.  in that deep, gravel bitten voice - but somehow, this time... it’s soft.  

just one word. her name.

“yenn.”

[wolfmyth]

“ There are two kinds of people: sheep and sharks. ” w/ geralt

“….hmm….”

“that would be nice.”

he’s probably not getting the point.

“sheep in fields.  sharks in the water.  each getting on with their lives - never the twain shall meet.”

he imagines she means that the sheep are the humans.  less than aware, wandering blindly while the predators ( likely referring to those deemed ‘monsters’ ) circle.  but it would be particularly difficult for a shark to circle a sheep on land.

“unless you have some kind of sheep flinging catapult.  in which case…”

he shrugs.  visions of bloody carnage.  seeping red into the water.  the panicked splashing and feeble bleating of the wooly beast singing into a maw of razor sharp teeth.

“…or the sheep learn how to fish.”

shark flopping on land, out of water - rubbery bodies failing to cope, gils flapping madly as they try to breathe.  only for the sheep to saunter away for a tasty patch of grass…

…three kinds of people.

[wolfmyth]

“ i died that day. ” (Juliet & Geralt)

which death?the one of the body or the one of the heart?  the two were not necessarily mutually exclusive.  and the former was often easier than the latter.  death of the body happened once. ( at least for most people… )death of the heart was living a million small deaths.shattering the soul, leaving it in shards.  each one cutting and fierce.  causing scars unseen.  aching and forever bleeding, easy wounds to reopen.

────── ⊰«──────

“mmh.”

he’s not one for soothing sentiment.  far too brusque.  too brutal in the ways of words to be able to offer a placation.  not that he wouldn’t like to offer some manner of reassurance.  he would.  he’s just not very good at anything other than abrasive truths at the best of times.

“and yet, you go on.  that speaks more about your capacity to live than it does to die.”