[ After weeks in the stifling underground darkness, even the soft blush of dawn peeking through the cool morning grey is startlingly bright. Ciri squints at their surroundings, eyeing the shadow that flits beneath the ice, and hurries Caitlyn along as much as she dares. She is slightly worried about Geralt, but trusts he can take care of himself; in the meantime, Ciri leads her charge to shore in an awkward, mostly-crouched or kneeling crawl, poised to catch her if the ice cracks.
Mercifully, no further unpleasantness complicates their path. The shadow remains beneath the ice. They stumble onto a pebbled shore dusted with snow, the ground hard and austere, and more beautiful than ever. Ciri presses her hands into the slush of dirt and ice, hunched down on all fours, and laughs. ]
Geralt! Caitlyn!
Can you believe it?
Fresh air.
[ It smells of pine and cold and earth. And she breathes in until it hurts, until she's shivering and gasping and grinning like a fool. ]
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Mercifully, no further unpleasantness complicates their path. The shadow remains beneath the ice. They stumble onto a pebbled shore dusted with snow, the ground hard and austere, and more beautiful than ever. Ciri presses her hands into the slush of dirt and ice, hunched down on all fours, and laughs. ]
Geralt! Caitlyn!
Can you believe it?
Fresh air.
[ It smells of pine and cold and earth. And she breathes in until it hurts, until she's shivering and gasping and grinning like a fool. ]