[ Eddieās gaze catches the moth and follows it to the floor, watching as it shrivels up at their feet. Morbid, he thinks, but pays it no further mind as he reaches for his cup again. Itās this movement, small and innocuous, that causes him to suddenly gasp in pain. ]
Shit.
[ Itās a familiar pain, one heās only felt once and one he had hoped to never feel again. Like hundreds and hundreds of tiny daggers ripping into his flesh, tearing him apart. It surges through his body, worsening by the second. ]
Can you--just excuse me for a moment...?
[ He tries to be polite, tries to shove his cup back into Geraltās hand before he stumbles backwards, doubled over and clutching his side. When he pulls his hand away, itās wet with blood--at least, thatās what he sees, and he panics.
When he arrived in Abraxas, he didnāt have any wounds or scars. There was nothing concrete to prove that what happened to him actually happened. All he had was the memory and Steveās word, and that had sent him spiraling into existential crisis, questioning whether he was truly alive or not. That worry never really went away, but pushing the memory into the very back of his mind and letting it collect dust (or fester) for awhile has helped quite a bit. An āignore it and maybe it will go awayā type of approach.
Well, he canāt ignore it now, not when he feels like heās bleeding out on Geraltās floor and the droning of hundreds of beating batsā wings are suddenly filling his ears. The pain is blinding and his eyes canāt focus in the darkness of the stronghold to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. If he could think clearly, he might tap into his earlier logic: this is the Horizon, none of this is really real. But it feels real, and thatās what feeds his thoughts more than logic ever could.]
Jesus Christ...
[ He begins stumbling backwards toward the door, eyes blindly scanning the room. The blizzard outside isnāt even a thought in his mind right now, and he hardly even sees Geralt now. He's dying either way, right? Dying again? ]
no subject
Shit.
[ Itās a familiar pain, one heās only felt once and one he had hoped to never feel again. Like hundreds and hundreds of tiny daggers ripping into his flesh, tearing him apart. It surges through his body, worsening by the second. ]
Can you--just excuse me for a moment...?
[ He tries to be polite, tries to shove his cup back into Geraltās hand before he stumbles backwards, doubled over and clutching his side. When he pulls his hand away, itās wet with blood--at least, thatās what he sees, and he panics.
When he arrived in Abraxas, he didnāt have any wounds or scars. There was nothing concrete to prove that what happened to him actually happened. All he had was the memory and Steveās word, and that had sent him spiraling into existential crisis, questioning whether he was truly alive or not. That worry never really went away, but pushing the memory into the very back of his mind and letting it collect dust (or fester) for awhile has helped quite a bit. An āignore it and maybe it will go awayā type of approach.
Well, he canāt ignore it now, not when he feels like heās bleeding out on Geraltās floor and the droning of hundreds of beating batsā wings are suddenly filling his ears. The pain is blinding and his eyes canāt focus in the darkness of the stronghold to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. If he could think clearly, he might tap into his earlier logic: this is the Horizon, none of this is really real. But it feels real, and thatās what feeds his thoughts more than logic ever could.]
Jesus Christ...
[ He begins stumbling backwards toward the door, eyes blindly scanning the room. The blizzard outside isnāt even a thought in his mind right now, and he hardly even sees Geralt now. He's dying either way, right? Dying again? ]