His intention is not to go so quiet on her. It's simply hard to be there with her, despite how much he wants to, when he's separated by an entire plane. That her sense of time seems skewed doesn't help, and he suspects—from the flatness of her lettering—that communicating is difficult. Worrisome in its own way. It leaves him hesitant to make her say more than she needs to.
He carefully checks up on her once between the long days. It isn't until she asks him to look in that he sends her something every day or two. Her answers read quiet, a little subdued. He can't begrudge her for not knowing what to say, either, so he concentrates on patrolling. The crater's circumference isn't small, but Roach's pace is brisk. He's careful to cover his tracks. There are traps to destroy. He keeps his campfires minimal. He makes sure carcasses do not appear slain by a weapon. (The claws help.)
It isn't perfect. Look long and hard, you'll find a trail anyplace. Geralt's banking on the natives avoiding the crater's edge—and on very few being as good of a tracker as he is. A dust storm should eventually kick away all signs of his presence.
Whether he's absorbing any of the Singularity's magic, he can't say. It's not at the forefront of his mind. Beyond the hum of his medallion, he feels nothing else. No surprises when his connection to Chaos has been...not limited, but different. The result of his mutations rather than an inherent ability.
He's dropping a sandcat at the far edge of the territory when the air ripples. His medallion thrums harder. It happens fast: by the time he spins Roach around and hurries back, Julie's sliding across the sand, landing next to the flattened tufts of dry grass that indicates where he's made camp.
He jumps off, dropping beside her to help her sit. His fingers curl gently at her elbow. Relief that she's free and conscious wars with a new sort of concern. "Easy."
no subject
He carefully checks up on her once between the long days. It isn't until she asks him to look in that he sends her something every day or two. Her answers read quiet, a little subdued. He can't begrudge her for not knowing what to say, either, so he concentrates on patrolling. The crater's circumference isn't small, but Roach's pace is brisk. He's careful to cover his tracks. There are traps to destroy. He keeps his campfires minimal. He makes sure carcasses do not appear slain by a weapon. (The claws help.)
It isn't perfect. Look long and hard, you'll find a trail anyplace. Geralt's banking on the natives avoiding the crater's edge—and on very few being as good of a tracker as he is. A dust storm should eventually kick away all signs of his presence.
Whether he's absorbing any of the Singularity's magic, he can't say. It's not at the forefront of his mind. Beyond the hum of his medallion, he feels nothing else. No surprises when his connection to Chaos has been...not limited, but different. The result of his mutations rather than an inherent ability.
He's dropping a sandcat at the far edge of the territory when the air ripples. His medallion thrums harder. It happens fast: by the time he spins Roach around and hurries back, Julie's sliding across the sand, landing next to the flattened tufts of dry grass that indicates where he's made camp.
He jumps off, dropping beside her to help her sit. His fingers curl gently at her elbow. Relief that she's free and conscious wars with a new sort of concern. "Easy."