[ Geralt peers dubiously through the opening in the ground. Best not to overthink it. He grasps the ledge, swings himself through, and then the entire world flips. It's startling, unsettling. He manages to flip with it, landing on his feet, but it feels less like falling through a hole than it does being thrown into the air.
He blinks up at the hole that's now above them, cautious. As though he's waiting for the world to right itself once more. It doesn't.
Mm. All right, then. ]
You failed to mention your world is constructed like an hourglass.
[ Does it constantly flip like that? He shakes his head, moving forward. Where have they wound up? The chill has not lessened; if anything, it's only grown. His breath frosts in the air, and the further he walks, the more his boots begin to echo on cold stone floors: uneven, ill-kept, stained with spilt food and blood. He's been so caught up in Steve's memories and shadows that it isn't until he steps on something hard, metal, that it strikes him where they are.
Home. But not the home he lived in for most of his life. Not that section of it. It's older, filled with small rickety beds lined against the walls. The wooden door looms large, almost foreboding where it's bolted shut from the inside. Beyond the beds, there's no furniture, no possessions of any kind. Just a rack of old swords.
Distracted away from Steve, he bends to pick up the silver medallion beneath his foot. It dangles from his fingers on its chain. The pendant shouldn't match the one he wears, but here in this strange landscape, it does: the same identical snarling wolf. He half-expects to see a shadow of himself as a boy spawn. Nothing quite. Perhaps it's because he does not, in truth, hold any clear memory of how he looked when he was a child. It's been too long. ]
no subject
He blinks up at the hole that's now above them, cautious. As though he's waiting for the world to right itself once more. It doesn't.
Mm. All right, then. ]
You failed to mention your world is constructed like an hourglass.
[ Does it constantly flip like that? He shakes his head, moving forward. Where have they wound up? The chill has not lessened; if anything, it's only grown. His breath frosts in the air, and the further he walks, the more his boots begin to echo on cold stone floors: uneven, ill-kept, stained with spilt food and blood. He's been so caught up in Steve's memories and shadows that it isn't until he steps on something hard, metal, that it strikes him where they are.
Home. But not the home he lived in for most of his life. Not that section of it. It's older, filled with small rickety beds lined against the walls. The wooden door looms large, almost foreboding where it's bolted shut from the inside. Beyond the beds, there's no furniture, no possessions of any kind. Just a rack of old swords.
Distracted away from Steve, he bends to pick up the silver medallion beneath his foot. It dangles from his fingers on its chain. The pendant shouldn't match the one he wears, but here in this strange landscape, it does: the same identical snarling wolf. He half-expects to see a shadow of himself as a boy spawn. Nothing quite. Perhaps it's because he does not, in truth, hold any clear memory of how he looked when he was a child. It's been too long. ]