[ Geralt's instinct is to do it himself. But he's told Ciri before that just because she can do it alone doesn't mean she has to—too many times to disregard his own advice. So.
He shines the light. The bright flare is almost painful. More than it should be. He squints, trying to angle it so his eyes don't burn. His body feels. Off. Like he's not in his skin, like it's stretched around too wide.
He lays his palm flat. Ignores the sting of a thousand needles to stretch the surface so she can slice cleanly. ]
Should be some salve left. [ He's been making it from what he can forage. Mostly to keep the irritation at bay. People always think the pain is the worst of an injury. It isn't. It's the incessant itching. ]
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He shines the light. The bright flare is almost painful. More than it should be. He squints, trying to angle it so his eyes don't burn. His body feels. Off. Like he's not in his skin, like it's stretched around too wide.
He lays his palm flat. Ignores the sting of a thousand needles to stretch the surface so she can slice cleanly. ]
Should be some salve left. [ He's been making it from what he can forage. Mostly to keep the irritation at bay. People always think the pain is the worst of an injury. It isn't. It's the incessant itching. ]