[He gives her a sad sort of smile. That sort of company wouldn't be terrible, but he's also not quite sure he could get it up right now if he tried.
It's nice enough she has not immediately turned around and gone out the door. He wouldn't blame her, really. He is aware he probably doesn't appear very fun or exciting at the moment... which is what their relationship really extends to.
He knows it doesn't make sense. It is simply not how his sphere works -- things are never so easy. But couldn't it be, only once? Why couldn't a fire-throwing psychopath simply be some sort of magic demon? If Ciri is supposed to be all these things... but honestly, he isn't even sure. Which one mattered. Geralt or Ciri.
He may have asked Ciri about Voleth Meir, but he won't this. This is his alone.
He listens without interruption. It's so close. So close, so conveniently so, he could believe this is what happened to him. Dreams like memories. And he could believe they were real, even if they weren't.
He curses the scars. Without them, he wouldn't have to know it happened.]
I had a dream last night. [He slides off the counter on shaky legs, moving around behind it. He may be drunk as shit, but he isn't rude. So he pours two glasses of ale, offering one to her before retaking his seat (with Moglad watching to make sure he doesn't fall again.)] Of home. My sphere. I was not here anymore. Time passed... so much of it. Over a year of things happening to me, to the Continent. War spreading like plague. Death following it like a flock of vultures. [He rubs the burned fingers together, testing their new, uneven tips, drinking from the glass in his other hand.] I lived through it all. And it was only one night, but I know I was there, that these things happened to me. Even as impossible as it all must be.
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It's nice enough she has not immediately turned around and gone out the door. He wouldn't blame her, really. He is aware he probably doesn't appear very fun or exciting at the moment... which is what their relationship really extends to.
He knows it doesn't make sense. It is simply not how his sphere works -- things are never so easy. But couldn't it be, only once? Why couldn't a fire-throwing psychopath simply be some sort of magic demon? If Ciri is supposed to be all these things... but honestly, he isn't even sure. Which one mattered. Geralt or Ciri.
He may have asked Ciri about Voleth Meir, but he won't this. This is his alone.
He listens without interruption. It's so close. So close, so conveniently so, he could believe this is what happened to him. Dreams like memories. And he could believe they were real, even if they weren't.
He curses the scars. Without them, he wouldn't have to know it happened.]
I had a dream last night. [He slides off the counter on shaky legs, moving around behind it. He may be drunk as shit, but he isn't rude. So he pours two glasses of ale, offering one to her before retaking his seat (with Moglad watching to make sure he doesn't fall again.)] Of home. My sphere. I was not here anymore. Time passed... so much of it. Over a year of things happening to me, to the Continent. War spreading like plague. Death following it like a flock of vultures. [He rubs the burned fingers together, testing their new, uneven tips, drinking from the glass in his other hand.] I lived through it all. And it was only one night, but I know I was there, that these things happened to me. Even as impossible as it all must be.