[ He'd made some effort to track the passage of time before they were dragged to the altar. That's gone thoroughly out the window. He can barely track the minutes that go by. They feel like hours and seconds, contracting, expanding.
Her terrified shouting is the first thing in ages that cuts through the fog in his head.
Ciri is asleep for once—passed out from exhaustion—and so he half-stumbles his way to the woman. Has he seen her before down here? Maybe. Digging through his memories is akin to searching through a haystack submerged in molasses. ]
Stop. [ He reaches for her hand. His own are torn and bloody, and there are bits of sharp thorns growing, too. Some are broken and torn. She's not the only one who's tried to rip them out, though a few of his look sliced with a tiny blade. Didn't exactly help. ] You'll make it worse.
lesions.
Her terrified shouting is the first thing in ages that cuts through the fog in his head.
Ciri is asleep for once—passed out from exhaustion—and so he half-stumbles his way to the woman. Has he seen her before down here? Maybe. Digging through his memories is akin to searching through a haystack submerged in molasses. ]
Stop. [ He reaches for her hand. His own are torn and bloody, and there are bits of sharp thorns growing, too. Some are broken and torn. She's not the only one who's tried to rip them out, though a few of his look sliced with a tiny blade. Didn't exactly help. ] You'll make it worse.