[ Fear does not rise easily inside him, but it's beginning to now. He swallows it down. He can take a lot of punishment, has been designed specifically to do so. His mind is another matter. He's learned to guard it closely, but it isn't the same. He is not a trained mage, was taught to defend himself against what the monsters are capable of more than anything else. It isn't often another powerful mage tests his boundaries, never mind two of them.
His gaze locks with Yennfer's for a split second. Geralt does not have the luxury of Yennefer's insight to be surprised; everything that's happening just feels about as he should expect. Which is to say, the worst that can occur and then some, because how else does anything ever go for him? But that she doesn't appear to have seen it coming him leaves him further uneasy. Not that he's much time to linger on puzzling out the situation: whether this is about Yennefer, about Ciri (have they somehow learned? Has her explosive magic a month ago rippled across the Singularity into Thorne? Is that even possible?), about something else altogether. He can feel the magic curling around him. It's warm and pulsing, leaves his skin humming uncomfortably.
The edges grow sharp quickly, like small razors digging. He tips forward onto his hands, stubbornly digging his heels into the blankness he's formed. The back of his eyes burn (and isn't that familiar), and while he can't tell if the tendrils are physically squeezing him or not, it fucking feels as though it is, coiling around where he's certain he's fractured a rib earlier. His breath comes short; he's lost track of what the queen is even doing over on her little throne. ]
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His gaze locks with Yennfer's for a split second. Geralt does not have the luxury of Yennefer's insight to be surprised; everything that's happening just feels about as he should expect. Which is to say, the worst that can occur and then some, because how else does anything ever go for him? But that she doesn't appear to have seen it coming him leaves him further uneasy. Not that he's much time to linger on puzzling out the situation: whether this is about Yennefer, about Ciri (have they somehow learned? Has her explosive magic a month ago rippled across the Singularity into Thorne? Is that even possible?), about something else altogether. He can feel the magic curling around him. It's warm and pulsing, leaves his skin humming uncomfortably.
The edges grow sharp quickly, like small razors digging. He tips forward onto his hands, stubbornly digging his heels into the blankness he's formed. The back of his eyes burn (and isn't that familiar), and while he can't tell if the tendrils are physically squeezing him or not, it fucking feels as though it is, coiling around where he's certain he's fractured a rib earlier. His breath comes short; he's lost track of what the queen is even doing over on her little throne. ]