#so i thought i'd set the starter in a bed and breakfast in that town if that's ok!

[polowac]

@horrormaestro ; modern starter !!

MONSTROSITIES HAVE ALWAYS PLAYED BY strict rules, the kinds written into bestiaries some long centuries ago without need for change.  where there is death, things that eat abandoned corpses creep from the earth.  if jealousy, wrath or envy swallow a home then spirits will coalesce around the very bones of every wall.  and that bitch, misery -- well she festers some of the fiercest, cruelest creatures into horrifying reality.  dancing in the pathways of serial killers and mad men to keep darkness around the trail they walked for many decades after.  it clings to the skin and soaks into geralt’s lungs without needing to focus his senses.  an ethereal stench from a spiteful presence.  

a goddamn oil slick every traveler must wade through when entering or leaving this tiny town in colorado, and geralt always finds himself doubting that he’ll ever wash the sensation away.  not, at least, when it leaks into his car and even the small bed and breakfast that he’s come to stop at.  half for rest.  half for information.  and that’s the real prickling in geralt’s spine, the lack of signage or contract to bring him here, wherever here is.  just tedium and instinct pulling on the direction he drove for hour after hour.  

he can’t remember when the path started to feel as nerve wracking as it does right.  never used to have geralt holding tight onto the strap of his bag or checking that roach is still curled around his shoulders, never mind the constant flick of her tail against a cheek.  he exhales hard as he rings the bell on the b&b’s front desk.  tiny thing, probably empty nesters looking to keep themselves busy.  the entire parlor turned lobby stinks to him of lavender and over processed vanilla.  

geralt’s teeth grit.  the urge to hit that bell again growing.  nerves don’t suit a witcher, and it’s that thought alone which keeps him from the desk, turning heel instead to take in every attached room.  dining.  kitchen, no doubt locked behind that windowed door.  and living room with a woman in it, made of hair so dark and skin so pale that he could have almost mistaken her for yennefer.  enough still to bring geralt pause, taking in the careful way everything about floral wallpaper and ancient couches seemed to rebel against her very presence.  or perhaps it was the presence itself that caught him in the first place.  

he leans in the doorway, arms crossing loosely.  small talk doesn’t belong to witchers either, and yet -- “don’t suppose you’re the owner here.”