( Way to nearly give him a god damn heart attack, dropping off the ledge like that. He makes an aborted little noise of surprise-distress in the back of his throat, only to peer over the edge and see the son of a bitch landing gracefully like a- well, you know. Sex panther. A small scowl of annoyance precedes the pop of wings, and he does not fly so much as glide-assist his way down, with his fingertips trailing down the rock face as though for balance.

Just because he can fly doesn't mean he's suddenly any more of a fan of heights, thanks. Jumping off cliffs for recreation is exactly his nightmare. He's half-distracted by scowling down at the ground when he answers. )

Yeah, that, uh... that keeps happening. I guess that's permanent. Or, you know, semi-permanent, whenever the adrenaline hits. Thanks for that.

( Only a little bit dry on the end there — he is grateful for what Geralt did for him, grateful to be cured, grateful to be saved. He really is. The unintended side effects he's a little less thrilled about.

He huffs out a sound that could be construed as a laugh, except he isn't smiling, and it doesn't sound... happy. )

You know, I-

( He starts. Stops. Licks his lip, pausing at the foot of the next ledge, his gaze going distant as the foliage withers and dies behind them. )

Between the eyes, and what I can do, and these-

( A little nod at the wings jutting over his shoulder. )

I'm starting to wonder what I even am anymore. Just the other night, it occurred to me that I'm starting to look a lot like something my dad would wanna hunt.