[Unfortunately, Geralt's ability to describe anything is shit. Nero can only allow himself to be in the Horizon for small stints of time without getting paranoid something might happen to his body. Which is a weird feeling, by the way.
Not worrying about his body, but fuckin' worrying at all. Full strength, there wouldn't be a thing anyone in there could do to him. Whatever they tried to do would just heal.
But he hasn't. For weeks, now. Or not enough for it to matter. The wounds fester, grow larger. The roiling of vines and thorns inside him is enough to sicken even him.
And then he has to fucking look across the entire Horizon for a woman in the Horizon, like that's a goddamn helpful description. He doesn't have the energy to ask for more. Maybe the Horizon ain't that big, but it is when he's doubled over, trying to keep his organs inside his stomach, where the worst of the gaping wounds continues to grow thick with thorns.
At some point, he wakes up in a guy's arms. Wakes up on the floor with just straight white above his head. And for some reason, when he turns his head, there's a cream soda.
Weird. But cool.
Nero shifts against the ground. Unlike other people who mess around with their Horizon appearance, he plopped in there exactly as he is still in the altar room. Fucking filthy. Covered in mud, and blood, and the weeping excretions of the open wounds slowly cracking his skin apart, with tendrils and thorns sliding out. Every cough comes with blood, and it leaks out of his nose and ears.
Truly a sight.
Between one blink and the next, when he realizes he's laying on the floor of a -- a tent? -- the giant head of a dog comes into his view. They stare at each other. Gold eyes. Feels kind of familiar.
It huffs.]
You are a really big dog.
[Being stuck in a pit for a few weeks has not really done him a lot of favors.]
sometime like mid-week 3
Not worrying about his body, but fuckin' worrying at all. Full strength, there wouldn't be a thing anyone in there could do to him. Whatever they tried to do would just heal.
But he hasn't. For weeks, now. Or not enough for it to matter. The wounds fester, grow larger. The roiling of vines and thorns inside him is enough to sicken even him.
And then he has to fucking look across the entire Horizon for a woman in the Horizon, like that's a goddamn helpful description. He doesn't have the energy to ask for more. Maybe the Horizon ain't that big, but it is when he's doubled over, trying to keep his organs inside his stomach, where the worst of the gaping wounds continues to grow thick with thorns.
At some point, he wakes up in a guy's arms. Wakes up on the floor with just straight white above his head. And for some reason, when he turns his head, there's a cream soda.
Weird. But cool.
Nero shifts against the ground. Unlike other people who mess around with their Horizon appearance, he plopped in there exactly as he is still in the altar room. Fucking filthy. Covered in mud, and blood, and the weeping excretions of the open wounds slowly cracking his skin apart, with tendrils and thorns sliding out. Every cough comes with blood, and it leaks out of his nose and ears.
Truly a sight.
Between one blink and the next, when he realizes he's laying on the floor of a -- a tent? -- the giant head of a dog comes into his view. They stare at each other. Gold eyes. Feels kind of familiar.
It huffs.]
You are a really big dog.
[Being stuck in a pit for a few weeks has not really done him a lot of favors.]