( Fun fact, a pretty high percentage of deaths by house fire aren't caused by the fire itself, but rather the smoke inhalation. Thankfully, there's about two hundred percent less asbestos and lead paint floating around out here in Middle Earth, but it's still doing a number on him. He's a little drunk on it, his head's throbbing. Eyes stinging and watering, chest aching from it, and it'd be nice if things could just hurry along here because he's straight up not having a good time right now. He'd rather pass out before that flame starts creeping up his leg to territory thus far uncharted by fire.
He's excluding Hell from that track record, obviously.
He's just about teetering on the brink by the time Geralt makes it inside, and it takes him about two seconds longer than normal to process it. It's just a blurry face and blonde hair shadowed by a writhing, flickering chiaroscuro thanks to the flames making one hell of a backdrop to this photo. He thinks, for one alarmed moment, that it's Ciri and he didn't actually get her out.
Thankfully, he manages to focus before that stomach-dropping dread can hit. In its place, a sluggish, agitated confusion. As Geralt works to heft that burning beam off of him, his reward is a mumbled: )
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He's excluding Hell from that track record, obviously.
He's just about teetering on the brink by the time Geralt makes it inside, and it takes him about two seconds longer than normal to process it. It's just a blurry face and blonde hair shadowed by a writhing, flickering chiaroscuro thanks to the flames making one hell of a backdrop to this photo. He thinks, for one alarmed moment, that it's Ciri and he didn't actually get her out.
Thankfully, he manages to focus before that stomach-dropping dread can hit. In its place, a sluggish, agitated confusion. As Geralt works to heft that burning beam off of him, his reward is a mumbled: )
The hell are you doing, man? Get outta here.
( The house is burning down, dumbass. )