abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

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[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

Who: Geralt + the Queen, Yennefer, Various
When: After Nov. 12
Where: Castle Thorne, Nott, Cadens
What: Geralt goes on an Adventure and has a great time
Warnings: Blood, violence, trauma

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[ yennefer had known that it wouldn’t be long before she was called - she could read enough from the queen’s expression well enough to know that, with or without trying to read her mind. it does mean that for every passing hour after that meeting, she waits for the call. it takes a couple of days, but she pays no mind to it. these are the early stages of her plan, and she is not interested in acting too quickly, seeming too interested.

so, when the call does finally come, yennefer paints a relatively surprised expression on her face - dressing quickly and answering the call to the queen’s throne room, just as she had not two nights previous.

once again, she waits in front of those doors. Once again, she entertains the growing sense of anticipation and curiosity held within it. The sudden feeling of chaos cracking, a kind of electricity shooting through the air, has yennefer frowning, unsure of what is to precede her in this hall.

then, the doors open, and yennefer is ushered in. she sweeps in easily enough, like she has been through these doors and into this room hundreds of times. it’s familiar, at this point, like breathing - and it is with that air she makes her way through.

except it isn’t quite only that - because yennefer steps inside and like being dunked into an icey river, a frozen kind of tension courses through her. sudden, overwhelming - because while she might only see a figure on his knees before the dias, the queen and grigory and her personal guard, it’s the white hair. the frame. the set.

immediately, yennefer’s nerves sing - her curiosity corrupted instantly by the sight of him. of him. of what it means. while the tension is barely perceptible and doesn’t even last the course of half a moment, it is still there, even as she makes the effort and decision to continue walking, to keep her eyes off of his back, to turn back to the queen.

( does she know? does she plan on using it against her? will this night turn much more violent than yennefer could have anticipated? she does not know - but what she does know is that she will not let her expression break. ) ]

My queen. [ she says when she reaches the end of the room, curtsying politely. giving grigory the barest, acknowledging glance. ] You called for me.

[ His senses have dulled immediately, which already leaves his teeth on edge. He remembers Relena telling him, The queen was there as well as that mage, Grigory, and it's the latter his attention snaps towards. His eyes are sharp, watching, but the second the doors open, he falters. He doesn't know why it's caught him so off guard. Who the fuck else could it be? Who else does he have any connection to in Thorne?

He can smell her perfume even before turns to see her walk in. Unlike Yennefer, he can't hide how he stares, and maybe some of that is because he recognizes there's no point in doing so. They obviously know something if they have put this much effort into arranging—this. After a second, he tears his gaze away. Unbidden, he thinks of her curled around the wolf in his bed, sleeping peacefully. He digs his nails into his palm. There's some irony in the fact that they needn't do much more than put Yennefer in the same room for him to feel as though he's lost his grip on every piece of himself.

He's quiet and still, though, all too aware that he's not what's at stake here. This is about Yennefer, and what is about Yennefer is invariably linked to Ciri. If they move him, he won't fight it—because he's already gathering there's only one way in which this can unfold. ]

Good. We're all assembled now.

[The Queen smiles now. But it's a cold smile that doesn't touch her eyes. It's turned to Yennefer.]

Welcome back. I was thinking on our little chat the other day, about uses of magic and your offers. You mentioned the extraction of information, I believe? We have our own methods for that, as you'll see shortly. But perhaps you've something better. I welcome any suggestions. After you've observed a demonstration of our own, of course. Come, stand by Grigory. Grigory, move over a touch, would you?

[She gestures to a spot on the dais steps beside her favored mage.]

We have a very special guest with us today. All the way from the Free Cities. Such a crude place, really. I can't imagine why any of our esteemed guests chose to venture there. But one can hope this one at least has useful information to share. And if not.... Well. He'll still serve a valuable purpose.

[ He doesn't need to be told twice. Grigory steps over to make from for Yennefer, keeping his gaze away from the sorceress. What she thinks of this ritual will be made clear shortly and he needs to concentrate on the task at hand.

It will take him a moment to prepare the spell. Delving into minds is no easy task, as one would expect. Grigory pours a clear liquid on both of his hands before hiding the vile away into his robes. Rubbing it between his palms, he then clasps his hands together, holding them rigidly in front of his middle. He closes his eyes and focuses, feeling out for Geralt with unseen hands. Closer...and closer. ]

[ good she says, and yennefer feels like she sees the queen more now, in that one cold smile, than in any other moment in their exchange so far, this night or previous. yennefer focuses on that eye contact, on the focus the queen gives her. focuses on that attention rather than the face that turns to her.

she shouldn’t be surprised, that he whips around to face her. that there is something surprised and caught off-guard in his gold eyes. yennefer barely spares him a glance, a brief contact of violet eyes to gold, before she forces them away again. back to the queen, where yennefer nods.

( it is a full body chill that shoots through her, a shock, that she weaves back into the ever present electricity of her chaos. she will not look at him, she will not let it show. if he’s here, it’s a specific show for her, it’s a move chosen for her, and she won’t give the queen or grigory what they are looking for. ) ] I did, your highness, yes. And I’d be happy to assist. Once I’ve observed, of course.

[ yennefer’s eyes go to grigory, then. sharp, judging, heavy, watchful. there is a specific edge to her glare as she looks at him, like she sees everything he is going to do and has ever done. that sharp edge curls across her smile as she nods, tugs up on her skirts and steps up onto the steps, the dias, taking her place next to grigory with a kind of outward sky facing pride and settling into place.

she has been put here, and she acts the part of a happy, excited, prideful courtier who was given that position. nevermind, how her eyes drift to grigory’s hands, how she sees the vial of clear liquid he spreads across them. nevermind, how she glances back to the queen as she speaks, then to geralt - kneeling before them all. yennefer hears the word crude and then valuable, and it is a feat of great effort that she is able to hold her expression neutral and then pull it away from geralt towards the queen, and then grigory, before her eyes drift back to the witcher before them all.

yennefer does not react. she does not. she does watch, though, to see how it happens. to see exactly what it is grigory tries to do. tries, being the key word. ]

[ Their little chat? His eyes flick to Yennefer. He can tell she's steeling herself, as though it hardly matters that he's here, but for him, it's—different. Because what is there to hide on his part? That he knows her? (More than knows her.) He ran to Cadens ten weeks ago. What the fuck could he have learned that anyone else hadn't? He can only think of one reason why he's here, with Yennefer, in the throne room with the queen when extracting information is hardly something that necessitates the presence of royalty. Unless the queen really does have shit all to do.

(They had parted with Yennefer in Thorne so she could redirect them away from Ciri if needed or warn him, not so she could fucking play games with the queen herself. What the hell was she thinking? No, he knows what she was thinking. He's always known.)

A heightened tension coils inside him. There are vials; there is magic in the air, and though he isn't certain what to expect, they are mages. Even across worlds, some things do not change. The gentlest pressure tells him all he needs. It's less resistance that might be found and more a carefully formed void, the kind he's learned to retreat into often. Empty, except perhaps the steady counting of his breaths.

Is it enough? He doesn't know. It has to be. Their magic is different, but he has no intention of letting anyone realize exactly what he has with him. Exactly who. On that, he and Yennefer agree. It's the only thing they agree on and whatever thorns might lie between them, he trusts she'll do what she has to for Ciri. ]

[Once everyone is in position the queen stands up. She smooths her gown and takes a step forward but remains on the throne platform.]

Very good. I'm pleased to hear it. Grigory...please begin while I prepare. I'm certain our guest will need a bit of encouragement to let you do your job.

[She clasps her hands in front of herself, head bowed. The feel of magic fills the room as the queen begins gathering her power and chanting low under her breath.

It seems as though Grigory won't be the only one casting magic today.]

[ He is but a conduit for her true intentions as he always is. Reaching out unseen, feeling for the holes in the prisoner's defenses. All people have something whether they will it or not and he can sense the telltale signs of someone who is likewise accustom to the use of magics. He expects some resistance, then.

It isn't out of cruelty that he pushes forward, only from a desire to do what she bids. His brows press together as he concentrates and begins chanting as well, the liquid that is drying on his hands slowly spreading up his wrist and forearms and beginning to glow in a pale violet light.

Rather than invisible hands gently probing for an opening, he opts to make one.

Wire-like tendrils of a similar purple light wrap themselves around Geralt's form, as if blocked by some invisible dome. But the squeeze, tighten, bringing themselves closer and closer to his actual form. Breaking through the mind feels much like breaking through the flesh when it comes down to it, sharp points of pain and a pressure that does not relent. The longer he resists, the more lines appear and wrap themselves around him like the body of a snake. ]

[ yennefer feels gerat's eyes on her more than she sees them, her attention on the queen, and on grigory, more than the prisoner himself. she does a good attempt at it, too, keeping her head level, her expression unaffected. she's not trying to act like she doesn't know him, necessarily. there is no avoiding that fact, with how those rumors had been held over her since the first day she'd been brought into court. but, rather, yennefer holds true to the air of neutrality. the air that, while she does recognize him, while she knows who he is, it doesn't matter.

the truth is - she doesn't know what the queen is trying for, in this moment. she doesn't know if this is an actual attempt at knowledge of the free cities (in which case yennefer could have warned her away from geralt, that geralt cares little about being involved and was just as likely to have found some spot in the desert rather than learn anything of value inside. it's possible the queen wouldn't know that, and it's equally possible that this is for her. a proof of loyalty. a test, to make sure yennefer's words match her actions.

the queen steps forward and raises her hands, and yennefer's attention goes to her, first. there is a level of surprise that crosses her eyes that neither the queen nor grigory can see considering their current focuses of attention, but geralt probably catches it - she had not expected the queen's direct involvement, not like this. her eyes dart - briefly - to geralt, watching the glow leave grigory, watches the tendrils curls themselvs around geralt. she has studied the magic used here in thorne, she can piece together some clues about what the general idea of what they're looking to do, but she's not entirely sure. not yet.

and then there is geralt - bound, on his knees, in front of the three of them. a source of something that the queen is planning, but what? just as the tendrils tighten around geralt's frame, yennefer feels an echo of something tightening in her chest. something she takes care to ignore, to breathe through. she knows geralt has experience with guarding himself, with protecting back against intrusive magics such as this. so yennefer does as the queen bids, and waits. watches.

( for now ) ]

[ 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. ]

[The queen continues her low chant and pulls her hands apart.]

Magic has a great many applications. My uncle taught me much. He's Captain of Borrel's military branch, and a very effective one at that. He called this particular trick the mage's lash.

[While Ellya is still looking at the bound Witcher on the floor, her words are for Yennefer. One hand raises high over her head, a glow of magical power around it. She snaps it down quickly with a few softly spoken words. There's a slice of wind through the throne room and Geralt will feel as though struck with a powerful lash.]

[ The tendrils wind closer, deeper into Geralt as Grigory holds the spell. Then as the Queen begins to instruct, they shift, gathering to sit touching side-by-side along his torso. They grow warm, hot as if they are melting and fusing into his skin.

As she raises her hand, Grigory frowns, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut.

The coils peal back in two directions at once, tearing open an unseen wound and providing a perfect target for Queen Ellya's due whipping. ]

[ If words are being spoken, he isn't listening. He knows he should, that maybe there's something important he might snatch out of their snippets of conversation, the language of their magic, but he just. Can't. He's not even looking at Yennefer. It's his turn to pretend as though she's not there—a distraction he doesn't want or need.

He's so fucked.

The amount of magic is stifling. It's hard to brace himself when he's no idea what's coming, what they really want. The tendrils burn where they curl around him, slipping under against his bare skin. For a second, he's gripped with the thought that it will meld into him altogether, some sort of monstrosity. Because that's exactly what he needs right now.

Instead, his flesh rips: abrupt, sharp, and not with a blade or a claw. It splits, like a fissure. He almost doesn't realize he's been struck with something else; there's just a hot lance across his back that leaves his ears ringing and tears a noise from his throat. ]

[ yennefer looks all the part curious and interested onlooker as the queen explains, and a part of her is genuinely curious - having not seen this part of the thornean magic. she looks - not necessarily interested - but an invested onlooker, listening intently as the queen instructs.

she will not break, here. she knows geralt well enough to know he will not snap with a simple wound. the opening of his skin and the immediate lashing does shoot a sense of tension through her, but it is much more a shocking sensation that she can push off as a instinctual reaction to the sound, if nothing else.

her eyes are mostly on the queen, flirting to grigory and then geralt, depending on the order of actions - following the scene in front of her, jumping only at the sound - though the impact of it goes much deeper. ]

Is that of his own making? [ she asks, as casually as she possibly can, though her eyes flit to geralt, to the obvious pain he feels, in how he reacts to the lashing, to how grigory opens him for it. she will not let a physical reaction show for how she tenses at the sound, will not let it show just how she feels for ravine lesion she sees. ] An affective use of force.

It was certainly one of his specialties.

[Another flick of the queen's hand and this one is more elegant and performative. As though she's enjoying showing off this particular skill. The same pain hits Geralt again, another skin splitting strike on his back.

At least she isn't layering the lashes.]

And but one of the little tricks I've picked up. My family has long served in Thorne's military. Anything, Grigory?

[ It takes nearly all of his concentration to keep this wound open, stretched and peeled bearing what he can to Queen Ellya's ministrations. Or will be. He knows that she makes a show for the sake of their guests, but it is up to him to ready their subject to her liking.

So he searches, invisible hands picking apart at the pieces of Geralt's soul with a fine scalpel, searing off small edges that are in the way of his field of view. He could make the procedure more pleasant, less rushed, but he knows that isn't the point. He searches as if he would a curse buried deep within the recesses of a person's being, except all he searches for here are the stronghold's of Geralt's mind.

He finds one. After a time. ]

Yes, Your Majesty.

[ He shoves that scalpel through the base of his skill, upwards to where memories are locked. It's a journey from where he opened up Geralt at the torso, but there are usually less...defenses in those parts of the body.

But he meets resistance. A slight flinch in his brow. ]

It may take a moment.

[ The wound, he realizes, has not just split open. It's being wrenched apart further, hands digging into his spine. Blood drips, staining the glossy floors. He's waiting for when it all explodes into a single searing burn, consuming him, because that would be easier to take, would shatter less of his focus than every small lash, but it doesn't come. He can hear Yennefer speaking—a dull buzz in the background, and he wonders which one of them will come out of this with more regrets. If they come out of it at all.

The thought is nebulous, slips away when a jagged pinprick tears his attention elsewhere. Not a wound, not exactly. Deeper. His skin peeled from inside, underneath. It gnaws and shreds and he should be alarmed as to what it means, but his ability to think is increasingly splintered. He struggles to breath, to steel for what's next—but nothing can prepare him for his skull cracking like a melon. His vision turns blinding hot. He curves over himself, chest heaving, choking on a cry. There's so much pressure in his head, it feels ready to burst. He tastes copper where blood has started to trickle from his nose.

Fear surfaces again and this time he does not bother to push it down. He's not even thinking anymore, just reacting, and it's breaking apart so fucking fast he can't keep up. When he turns to Yennefer, staring up at her, it is not for some unspoken message or with a thought out purpose. He just hasn't got anything more inside to draw on; she's all he has left, and despite what's come between them, they have nearly a decade of history. He trusts her, knows she will do what she has to. He thinks. He hopes.

Because he doesn't give a fuck about what happens to him. That's not why he's afraid. It's the girl whose secrets he holds. And in that moment, if the mage is prodding in the right place, he will see that girl: younger, unscarred, with bright green eyes and enveloped in an inexplicably fierce desire to protect her. ]

[ at the queen's response to her, yennefer gives something of a huff of a laugh. one of his specialties, she can appreciate these things when they come. can appreciate strong women, in control of this type of power, and she can appreciate it outwardly, and audibly, when in the presence of a woman she is trying to prove something to.

( what, exactly, she's still not certain - her loyalty? her connection or lack thereof with geralt? yennefer doesn't yet let her mind spin with the possibilities, but later she might. when she's left alone with her thoughts, time, and the echoes leftover of the stress she's not quite letting herself process. )

the strikes of the queen's magic arc through the air, elegant and beautiful, as they slice down the skin of geralt's back. yennefer does not wince at the sound, barely seems to react except to watch, curious at the queen's work but more of her attention given to grigory and what it is he's doing. what magic it is he's using beyond simply holding geralt prone.

there's a vague sensation in the air - of chaos, being handled. of magic, being used. yennefer still doesn't know the details of what grigory is attempting, but can feel the work he's putting in, the focus and precise nature of his fine-tuning, heavy in the air. she can also put together enough of the clues, context and otherwise, even if she's not entirely certain of the specifics. grigory is trying for geralt's mind, yes, that much is obvious. it's also why, up until this point, yennefer hadn't really been all that worried - geralt had his own defenses to that sort of magic, defenses she knew first hand and did not, in many ways, believe grigory to be entirely capable of.

that is why when geralt does look at her, the expression she finds there, it gives her pause - and only pause, at least outwardly. and even if grigory or the queen had tried to see anything else, internally, they would find walls upon walls and little else. because yennefer can defend herself, better than anyone, against those eyes. and because she knows that, there is a part of her that feels the desperation that geralt turns to her with. that, just barely, tastes the panic. the fear. whatever it is grigory is doing, it is working, he is getting in, blood trickles from geralt’s nose, and it has geralt turning to yennefer for help.

( she's done this to him, hasn't she? her plans and her decisions, her opening herself up to the queen, the kiss they'd shared. that she'd let them share. yennefer hates herself, a little for it. for allowing this to happen. for giving anything, at all, that brought geralt into this mix.

because this is about ciri, yes. protecting ciri. doing anything they can do to keep her safe and out of the eyes of thorne, of the queen. but for yennefer, too, it is geralt. geralt, who turns to her. geralt, who looks at her, afraid. geralt, who trusts her, even now, and twists at things inside her chest. it is the wish, yes, of course it's the wish, but knowing that does not change the way her heart feels like it's stopped in her chest. )

it may take a moment grigory says, and yennefer blinks. turns (forces) her attention away from geralt (does he know what she means to do?) and to grigory instead (he's struggling, if he's struggling, maybe...). an idea is there, barely formed, barely whole, but enough (it has to be enough) that it has her looking interested. ]

Would you like some assistance? [ she is already reaching for her chaos, already pulling it around her, though there is nothing visually to see other than an almost casual lift of her hand from where it had been at her side. a spark of potential, mixing with the queen's own magic in the air.

before yennefer does anything - and in a way that makes her seem calm, curious but not emotionally affected (her heart will not speed up, she will not let it, will not let the anxiety come to pass where she could be found out) - she turns to the queen instead. ] Only if you permit it, your majesty. [ asking for permission, though her wrist begins to rotate - not in anything specific, but as an offering, even as she continues to pull her concentration. continues to build whatever it is she may need.

( and if the queen says no, if she will have to adjust, have to change tactics, but she can't sit back and wait any more. )

she smiles, gently. politely. ] But I could help make this move more quickly.

I appreciate your eagerness, but we're nearly done here.

[It seems there's no need to put on any greater show. Ellya is getting what she wants from this, and perhaps even a bonus. It depends what Grigory manages to pull out but this venture has been very satisfying so far. There are so many other things they could do to the prisoner but there's something disparaging to be said about excess.]

I'm sure you'll be able to show off your full scale of talents eventually.

[The queen brings her hand down once more and releases the spell.]

Pull whatever you can, Grigory, then have the prisoner returned to his cell. I have other obligations for today. We can always try again.

[ There it is- that snap, that break he has been waiting for. Geralt's defenses are strong but not impenetrable, the sign of someone familiar enough with magics and stubborn enough to fight against them, but not indefinitely. Everyone eventually breaks with enough pain.

He registers Yennefer's movements and words, but he only acts on the bidding of his Queen. The floodgates have opened and Grigory must grasp at what flows through them in shattered bits and pieces. ]

Yes, Your Majesty.

[ The finer details of these visions he catches flying by will be shared in private, but he still narrates as he should, a short list of what he was able to gather for all those present. ]

...I see those who fled to the Free Cities when all had been frozen. Their arrival in Cadens.

[ Faces, bits of names that they can likely compare to their records in order to categorize most of the time. ]

And...

[ A pause. This one seems out of place, strangely out of place. The form of a child shrouded in darkness as though Geralt's broken psyche still tries to keep the image close. But through those wisps Grigory catches a glimpse. ]

...A shadowed form. It's difficult to tell...

Edited 2021-12-12 02:25 (UTC)

[ we’re nearly done here does more to set yennefer off than anything else, a kind of finality to the queen’s voice that does not sit well with her. her eyes turn to geralt, a flash of a look - not even a moment’s worth, but something - before yennefer nods, once. it turns into a kind of bow, as she takes a step backward, hiding any movement that might have been seen (there isn’t anything, of course - she doesn’t need movements, doesn’t need words, for her magic to move). ]

Of course, your majesty.

[ she is open to what flows from geralt then, too - names, faces, people she herself had seen escape through those portals, and some she doesn’t recognize at all. she wonders if they’re new, or if they’re just faces she hadn’t seen during her own time in the dungeons.

and then there is the face of the girl - green eyes, the fierce protectiveness. yennefer doesn’t even have time to stand, fully, before her magic is reaching out - panicked, quick, a whip-snap of chaos reaching for the first thing she can find. there is nothing to be seen about it, no visual to be caught at all, nothing grigory or the queen should be able to notice (should - she hasn’t ever had anyone notice this before, doesn’t expect it to be noticed now). it lasts all of that brief not-even-a-moment, a whip lashing out for the closest memory, the closest memory that couch possible hold enough to drown out the information grigory is gathering. the pull is half-hazard, without any of the finesse that grigory had been working with, but it should be enough.

enough to cover whatever image of the girl grigory had started to see, enough to flood the connection.

she hopes it is enough. her eyes land on geralt, one last time, before they shift to grigory - swallowing back whatever coppery taste she has on the back of her tongue. it’s a risk - that they won’t notice what she’s done, that what she’d wrenched free will be enough to distract, that they will move on. no matter what it is she’s done, though, her attention is on the mage. the effort he’s putting forth. ]

A figure of what?

[ His ears ring louder. Desperately, he tries to hold onto what he can, for all the fucking good it'll do. He clutches his head, every breath sharp and shallow. If he remembers where he is, or with whom, it's distant at best. Flashes of images tumble together, new and old and forgotten. A shadowed form someone says. His eyes flick upwards towards Grigory before he can stop himself.

He's only dimly aware of Yennefer's presence for an instant. Subtle. He remembers the first time she slipped into his head, when he'd barely caught on. Not that it would take much effort to get in, split wide open as he is. The memory she finds is already at the surface, never buried as deep as he wants it to be, even after all these decades. Especially now, magic suffocating the air and blood slick beneath him—it's there, waiting. But where the others come and go as Grigory rifles through, this one snaps loose altogether.

Afterwards, he will understand what she did. Here, in this moment, he has no time to react before he drowns under the sudden torrent. What's happening now or then or someplace else, he can't tell the difference. Every thought washes away. There's just blood, the heavy taste and smell of it, the sickly sweet stench of herbs, filling his senses until he's choking on it, until his eyes water. A fire sweeps through his veins, burns his lungs. He can't see, he can't fucking breathe. He doesn't know what they're doing to him (except he does, of course he knows what it is to be unmade and remade. They—mages, all of them, does it matter who?) He hears screaming, echoing, discordant, a dozen voices layered—or maybe it's just him.

His fingers dig into the marble (stone), clawing, red streaks left behind. The sound that comes is not pained; it runs deeper, an animal noise that tears from his throat. ]

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[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

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swapping order for yen & geralt

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apologies for the delay my queen and loyal experiments

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sorry for the length, mods…..;-;

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yen and geralt switch back for this round!

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