He sits up, pressing one hand against the heavy stone walls narrowed in around them. These are not the corridors of Kaer Morhen. Nothing about it is familiar, in fact. Jo stumbles and shuffles back and Geralt ignores it all until she finally speaks.
His eyes flick back to her. They've faded to their typical yellow, something that becomes clear when he stands and lights a torch hanging in a sconce with his palm. The gold gleams in the flickering fire: hard, just as icy as before.
"You tell me." He brushes his fingers over a dangling broken chain. "I doubt you've run short on presumptions about my nature."
He had not done anything to her (except he had, deep down). She'd. What. Lost consciousness? For a brief moment. And he should care more about it, perhaps, but her words remain sharp in his mind, leaves acid on his tongue. What baseline decency he's extended between their little excursion on the roof and inside the Roadhouse has thoroughly dissolved.
no subject
His eyes flick back to her. They've faded to their typical yellow, something that becomes clear when he stands and lights a torch hanging in a sconce with his palm. The gold gleams in the flickering fire: hard, just as icy as before.
"You tell me." He brushes his fingers over a dangling broken chain. "I doubt you've run short on presumptions about my nature."
He had not done anything to her (except he had, deep down). She'd. What. Lost consciousness? For a brief moment. And he should care more about it, perhaps, but her words remain sharp in his mind, leaves acid on his tongue. What baseline decency he's extended between their little excursion on the roof and inside the Roadhouse has thoroughly dissolved.