[ Though he may have technically left Jaskier on watch, he's not exactly gone into a deep slumber. He is, however, dozing enough to not be awoken by anything beyond their immediate vicinity. He doesn't hear the clunk of metal nor the scrape of steel against desert rock. Not until Jaskier's shouting splinters the silence does he jerk upright. The horses whinny nervously.
A what? The fuck is—
He's trying to consider what Jaskier could mean; the dead have not roamed the desert since the unfortunate incident with the Heralds, and no creatures here could be mistaken for a living corpse.
As it turns out, he need not wonder for long: the answer lumbers into full view as Jaskier flees past him. His fingers curl around his sword's grip. He cocks his head to the side. The smell of decay permeates the air. And something more, something...unnatural. Metal joints creak. It moves in stuttering steps, its body poorly controlled. What the fuck. Where did it—? He's reminded suddenly, vividly, of the mutated mass of young women he found at Vuilpanne. A grotesque abomination that could only be created by other men.
Geralt shoots a glance at Dean, equally bewildered by its appearance. It likely is a victim. One that must've escaped. He thinks he can guess from where, though he hasn't time to reflect on that. There is a void behind its hollow eyes and the absence of a heartbeat that tells him all he needs to know.
The monster's weighted steps sink into the sand, kicking up dust. It's startlingly fast—long limbs and unrestrained exertion making up for its ungainly lurches. He dodges the first swipe, then parries the second. His blade catches the sliver of flesh between the cuffs, a deep cut that nearly severs its hand at the wrist. The blow should send the manmade beast reeling back. Instead, it doesn't even flinch. Just throws its entire weight at him without a pause in its step. He catches the damn thing straight to the chest, landing flat on his back. ]
no subject
A what? The fuck is—
He's trying to consider what Jaskier could mean; the dead have not roamed the desert since the unfortunate incident with the Heralds, and no creatures here could be mistaken for a living corpse.
As it turns out, he need not wonder for long: the answer lumbers into full view as Jaskier flees past him. His fingers curl around his sword's grip. He cocks his head to the side. The smell of decay permeates the air. And something more, something...unnatural. Metal joints creak. It moves in stuttering steps, its body poorly controlled. What the fuck. Where did it—? He's reminded suddenly, vividly, of the mutated mass of young women he found at Vuilpanne. A grotesque abomination that could only be created by other men.
Geralt shoots a glance at Dean, equally bewildered by its appearance. It likely is a victim. One that must've escaped. He thinks he can guess from where, though he hasn't time to reflect on that. There is a void behind its hollow eyes and the absence of a heartbeat that tells him all he needs to know.
The monster's weighted steps sink into the sand, kicking up dust. It's startlingly fast—long limbs and unrestrained exertion making up for its ungainly lurches. He dodges the first swipe, then parries the second. His blade catches the sliver of flesh between the cuffs, a deep cut that nearly severs its hand at the wrist. The blow should send the manmade beast reeling back. Instead, it doesn't even flinch. Just throws its entire weight at him without a pause in its step. He catches the damn thing straight to the chest, landing flat on his back. ]