[ CLOSED ] talon and tooth

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Dion
When: Start of January
Where: Nocwich
What: Questing
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon


the skull of a wolf,
the horns of a ram,
and the body of an overgrown millipede;

(( plot with me discontinued ))

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[princeofruin]

[It seems their pause was only mere hesitance, not a lack of fear. Dion leaps down from the tree next to his lance, propping his boot against its throat as he wrenches his weapon free from its flesh. A second antelope comes at him, not fast enough to avoid his pirouette, slashing the lance's edge across this beast's legs; it crumples with a cry that sounds, horribly, like the wail from a human throat.

Dion leaves Geralt to his own devices; he is content, his blood flaring hot, among several of the creatures with his lance in hand. They circle him instead of fleeing; testament to their tenacity of predators, he realizes, combined with the gore staining their muzzles and fangs.

Certainly not the gentle, fearful antelopes he knew from the grassy knolls of Storm.

Dion moves around several of the herd, cutting another one down just as a third leaps in and closes vicious, carved fangs onto his arm. A happenstance it only bites down where there is pure, hard stone; the fangs break and the animal makes a grotesque scream, suddenly jerking away before he can slice across its throat. As his lance embeds in the stomach of one of the largest antelopes, another darts in, low to the ground, to close teeth around his thigh.

With a grunt of pain, he pulls his lance free once more and spins to slice straight through that one's legs. Two fallen to the ground, but living still with their wretched screams. Dion leaps back to take an assessment: the more he cuts down, the more appear from the dark. Certainly he has made a dent in them, and several have finally run.

So it was a scouting party, perhaps -- or more have come from the sound of their cries.

Very well. All the better. He summons more light, which sparks to life around him in a series of flares that appear like will o'wisps. Dion protects himself with his lance while the wisps grow in size, pulsating, until he sends the light out towards the remaining antelopes.

When his knee hits the ground, his other leg dribbling thick blood that soaks his trousers, the antelopes left around him have fallen, their fur charred black and eye sockets, now empty, smoking from the light that burned straight through them, from the inside out.

He has never felt the creep of petrification, but he can feel the burn of his aether. Ignoring the wound in his leg, he rolls up his sleeve to see the petrified skin has crept further down his forearm. Yet there remained plenty distance from his joint still.]

[gynvael]

[ Like the ceknias, Geralt smells fresh blood the moment it hits the air. They dart away—disinterested in fighting their food when there's wounded prey nearby.

He follows them.

It isn't hard to find Dion, anyhow, when a constant burst of light announces his location. Scorched fur and burnt flesh fills Geralt's nostrils. The remaining pairs of glowing eyes greet him, advancing from the side towards Dion. They bare their curled teeth—before their entrails spill across the powdered snow.

He flicks the blood from his sword and stops a few feet from Dion. It's not the first time he's seen the odd petrifaction overtaking the man's limb. Perhaps it says something that Dion seems more concerned with it than the bite on his leg.

Geralt offers him a hand up. They've bandages on the horses. ] Did they enjoy the taste?

[ The beasts sure as hell tried to chew on him, though they didn't take as large a chunk as the unfortunate woman under the tree. From what he can tell, she's missing most of her face, her stomach, and a portion of her leg. Which—he'll alert the wolves travelling with them when he returns. Likely, they'll wish to bury their own. ]

[princeofruin]

[Dion plants his lance in the ground once he thinks he hears more of the beasts... but he needn't have bothered. He can hear their bodies hit the snow, and Geralt comes into the small light around him, as one wisp remains by his side to not leave him in complete darkness.

The prince takes the offering, rising to his feet with only a slight wince. Hardly the worst wound he's taken, but still a painful one.]

Not the first bite. [He points, with his lance, to the one whose teeth broke on his arm. He rolls his sleeve back down, leaning some of his weight off the leg and onto his lance. (Terence would have been sure to give him an earful for being careless.)] I am like to think it shan't have complained about the second.

[It would have taken more of him, to be sure, given the chance.] They were far more agile than I expected. I must confess, I am more accustomed to fighting man than beast. [At least not beasts like this. Agile, lithe predators, moving like a pack of wolves, but more unsuspecting about it. With the cries of humans. It is for those reasons, he suspects, that woman fell victim to them.

Dion turns his attentions to the Witcher, looking him once over.] You are unharmed?

[gynvael]

[ His head cocks to the side, eyes following the lance towards the bloodied ceknias. He crouches down and nudges its head. Shattered tooth. Hm. So that's why Dion was examining his arm. Seems there are some advantages to turning into stone, a condition Geralt has never asked about. Not his business.

Still. He has to wonder what might've caused it. An ailment from birth? A curse that came later? Is it still spreading or has the Singularity in this sphere intervened? ]

Men do have duller teeth. [ He pushes to his feet and sheathes his sword. He's fine. Just scrapes and bruises that will fade by morning. ] We should return.

[ As long as Dion can make it back on his wounded leg. Geralt waits before moving off—not wanting his companion to hit the ground out of sheer stubbornness.

If the lancer is expecting a lecture, one doesn't come. Injuries happen. Especially when you're surrounded by carnivorous antelope you've never seen. He should've fucking known this would not be a simple transport. When is it ever? The wagon's safe, at least. Leaving the Lunae to guard it was for the best, he knows, though he expects they may want to retrieve the woman's body. ]

[princeofruin]

[The joke is in very poor taste, yet it gets a sound that suspiciously sounds like a humorous snort from the prince, as he retrieves his lance, cleaning the gore from it using the grass as best he can.] So I have learned.

[He nods, using the lance to prop himself up as he rises. There is a wince with his steps, but it is hardly the worst injury he has sustained, especially when Bahamut has suffered the pain of lost limbs.

At least from Geralt, Dion expects nothing. They walk, and Geralt, at least, does not fully leave him behind. It is not for the first time he thinks of the healing magic he has seen at use in the Thorne castle... if he had such a power, such an injury would be mere trifle.

Yet his heart still balks at the idea. Especially the use of magic in service to himself. (Thancred's words ring hollow, yet true. What if it happens again, and you cannot control yourself?)]

I would do it myself, but... I do not want to leave her body further to scavengers. Will you retrieve her? I will return to the wagon and prepare our escort to move onwards.

[gynvael]

[ Were Geralt to learn, he might've had a healing spell at his disposal, too. He has his own reasons for turning away the opportunity. It would be practical, but a Witcher practising as a mage, feels...mm. It's difficult to explain. He only knows that the notion sits uneasy within him. Shades of his mother. Shades of Vilgefortz insisting they could each be something more. Something neither mage nor Witcher.

He's survived this long with the training he has. With what he is. It's enough.

He nods towards the wagon as it draws closer. Like Dion, he doesn't want to leave her body there, either. Not if they can help it. ] Her people will look after her.

[ The wolves are swifter, and they will know what they wish to do with the body.

He informs the scout guarding the wagon of what they found. While the two Lunae leave for the woods, Geralt reaches for one of the saddlebags. Strips of cloth. Water. A tin of salve. It'll do until Dion can get the wound looked at closely. ]

Sit. [ He crouches down. It's not a suggestion. ] Let me see.

[princeofruin]

[Dion follows the line of his gaze, realizing... yes. The wolves would not be inclined to let a fellow rot either, especially that which attracts such beasts. He nods.] A fair point.

[Perhaps he does not wish to dirty himself any further.

He imagines the body will join the others on the wagon; that itself may have been enough to attract the beasts further up the road should they have continued without pause. The wagon, at least, seems unaffected, and once the wolves have been updated on the situation, a couple do leave the wagon to retrieve the corpse left behind, with a sheet tucked under one's arm to collect her remains.

They were scattered, after all. Some missing. A grisly sight, to be sure.

Dion cocks his head as he places his lance astride the wagon, his gait only somewhat slowed by the wound. He turns back to the Witcher, brows raised in abject surprise.

Being ordered by ordinary men is still such a... new experience.

Dion does sit, extending his leg, though there is a touch of hesitation in it. Not that he doubts the man's ability to deal with surface-level wounds; it is only now, as he sits, and the pain rockets up his leg, that he cannot wrench the memories of Terence on his knees, poultice in hand. There has not been another man to dress his wound in years upon years. Hardly another man has even laid a hand upon him.

Dion rolls up the leg of his trousers, now heartily stained, to reveal the blood that has dribbled down his leg and begun to dry, until the jagged holes of the wound itself are revealed. The skin is angry and red, and there is traces of saliva and gore that he is sure is not his own. It must have been one that had been feasting upon her.]

Disregarding your lack of manners... you are quick to offer aid. [He rests his hands on either side of him, the grip strangely tight.] Thank you, Geralt.

[gynvael]

[ A soft snort escapes him at that. He eyes the wound, trying to determine if sewing it close would be worthwhile. They'll return soon—and Geralt knows any trained healer will undo his indelicate work the instant they can. ]

Nobody expects manners from a Witcher. [ His lips twist wryly. ] Your Highness.

[ There's a sense Geralt is all too aware Dion isn't accustomed to being treated as a common soldier, and that this has changed precisely zero things about Geralt's behaviour.

He wipes the gore clean, packs the salve into the holes (probably not pleasant), and shakes out the strip of cloth. Then he begins to wind it around Dion's leg. His touch is not the softest, but nor is it as rough as one might expect. His work is tidy, at least—the edges of the cloth neatly tucked in. It will suffice until Dion finds a healer at the castle's infirmary. Since the man is in Thorne, Geralt isn't concerned.

He rises and offers Dion a hand up. The wolves will return shortly. He glances at the moon. The snow continues to drift, covering the wagon and the horses with a thin white layer. They've lost time, but in a land without sun, it hardly makes a difference. ]

At least we've no need to worry about nightfall.

[princeofruin]

[While he may have found amusement in the way Geralt frames the title -- his proper title -- like a gentle needling. Now his grip tightens, and his smile that forms is only a polite one, as he looks past Geralt's shoulder as if to keep a watch.

There is nothing in Geralt's mannerisms he would mistake for one of Terence's. They are hardly alike, even in body. It is the scenario, a man on his knees caring to the prince's wounds. Your Highness. My prince.]

I know not which to expect from a Witcher quite yet. [But there is an addendum there: yet I am learning. A surprising amount of care for such a taciturn soldier. He is not gentle, yet is firm the amount the wound calls for. Dion is quiet, only wincing with a snarl to his nose.

He asks not which gave him away -- Your Highness -- because it matters little. The title has no meaning, and he knows his mannerisms to one with experience may be enough to suffice. He does not bother to dissuade Geralt thinking otherwise; he only takes the Witcher's hand to stand, testing his weight on the leg now the wound does not bleed freely. Painful, but manageable. As all wounds must be on the field.]

We have plenty of lights to guide our way. [Here a small note of humour returns.] Though I have learned you need such things little.

wrap 🎀

[gynvael]

[ The truth is, Dion had not explicitly given himself away, beyond his noble heritage. He could have been a baron, a viscount, a duke. A minor lord. But Your Highness is both a joke and a way to test the waters—and Dion's reaction tells him enough.

So he's right. A prince or a king. Interesting.

He asks no further. ]

I don't. [ He'll confirm that much. ] You can expect that, too.

[ He reaches for the horse he was riding before the interruption. When the wolves return with the woman's body, Geralt mounts. They continue onward; the snow falls thicker as they travel northward. As fortune would have it, no more trouble awaits them—which is good. Geralt's had more than enough excitement tonight. ]