[ His expression softens. Rocket often reminds him of something, someone, far back in his memories. Rough around the edges, talked too much shit, and with a heart they can't quite hide. The name and face eludes him, but sometimes he glimpses a flash of white hair that isn't his own.
He wonders who it is. He wonders if there's a reason he let go of that memory. There must be. There usually is.
Geralt kneels by the carcass. The earth sprouts with newly grown grass, covering the blood and dotting the ground with small wildflowers and overgrown ferns. The woods don't last when he makes them—he isn't Jaskier—but it'll stay until they leave it behind. It's a little more pleasant than making a grave out of bloodstains.
Then he stands again, indicating for Rocket to proceed. ]
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He wonders who it is. He wonders if there's a reason he let go of that memory. There must be. There usually is.
Geralt kneels by the carcass. The earth sprouts with newly grown grass, covering the blood and dotting the ground with small wildflowers and overgrown ferns. The woods don't last when he makes them—he isn't Jaskier—but it'll stay until they leave it behind. It's a little more pleasant than making a grave out of bloodstains.
Then he stands again, indicating for Rocket to proceed. ]