[ Truths, yes. That, he knows well. The living lie and obscure; the dead have no such designs. A corpse will tell him how long ago was its last breath. It will bear the marks of its attacker and its last moments. More than a few secrets have been unleashed by the departed.
It's only that this once, he hasn't a need for those truths. He already knows them intimately. How they died. The mutations that ate through their flesh.
His gaze roams over Dion for the second or two that the man's heart stutter-steps. Then he looks forward again, a wry twist to his lips. ] Haven't had much to wear away in decades.
[ It's not meant to sound dire. He's just been through worse. He was created from worse. Horrors have plagued his nights for as long as he can remember. What does it matter if he dreams of the agony of the Trials or bloodied bodies across the snow or the fevers that gripped him in that cave? He still can't sleep for shit. Never could. That's simply how it is. He lives with it. He wakes up. He moves on. He finds his peace elsewhere when he can. In the companionship of his oldest friend, in the soft smiles of his daughter.
Before Dion can respond, a soft wail flits through the air, carried by the wind. Geralt urges his horse to slow her pace. The wolves accompanying them follow suit—ears as sensitive as his. He cocks his head, listening. He knows that sound. He's heard it before in the hunting woods, but...
Something feels different, too. He can't place his finger on it. ]
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It's only that this once, he hasn't a need for those truths. He already knows them intimately. How they died. The mutations that ate through their flesh.
His gaze roams over Dion for the second or two that the man's heart stutter-steps. Then he looks forward again, a wry twist to his lips. ] Haven't had much to wear away in decades.
[ It's not meant to sound dire. He's just been through worse. He was created from worse. Horrors have plagued his nights for as long as he can remember. What does it matter if he dreams of the agony of the Trials or bloodied bodies across the snow or the fevers that gripped him in that cave? He still can't sleep for shit. Never could. That's simply how it is. He lives with it. He wakes up. He moves on. He finds his peace elsewhere when he can. In the companionship of his oldest friend, in the soft smiles of his daughter.
Before Dion can respond, a soft wail flits through the air, carried by the wind. Geralt urges his horse to slow her pace. The wolves accompanying them follow suit—ears as sensitive as his. He cocks his head, listening. He knows that sound. He's heard it before in the hunting woods, but...
Something feels different, too. He can't place his finger on it. ]