[ Geralt is not unfamiliar with the terms he's given, but Clive isn't using them in a way he recognizes. His gaze roams over the other man: his curled fist, the hesitant answer, as though it requires effort to say out loud.
It is, Geralt thinks, very different from how casually he calls himself a Witcher. ]
For us, afreets are djinns born of flame. [ And phoenixes are merely fable. Or so it's said. He can admit he'd once believed gold dragons the same before he marched up a fucking mountain with one. Fire spells in and of themselves are rare enough. He's grown more accustomed to seeing it, but...it's still unusual to him. ] They're the source of your magic?
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It is, Geralt thinks, very different from how casually he calls himself a Witcher. ]
For us, afreets are djinns born of flame. [ And phoenixes are merely fable. Or so it's said. He can admit he'd once believed gold dragons the same before he marched up a fucking mountain with one. Fire spells in and of themselves are rare enough. He's grown more accustomed to seeing it, but...it's still unusual to him. ] They're the source of your magic?
[ Where does the frost factor in, then? ]