The whole of it feels weirdly alienly (or ... weirdly human?). Geralt doesn't get up, doesn't take all of this, and shoves back into the broad, solid set of those shoulders and unimpressed towering height. Instead, he takes the wall as if he needs it to hold him up. The wrecked hell that is vomiting aside, he looks as shaken as he sounded in the pitch black of the box.
Which, with a look up, is gone as though it was never there, to begin with.
Then, back. Maybe not as bad as up there. Wrung out by both things, though. Jo pushes up from her crouch, and it's hard not to be struck by the weirdness of looking down at him. It's for granted how tall he is, and it's not fitting to say it makes him look small. He's just as broad, and there's still just as much body akimbo vertical on the ground rather than upward. But.
But smaller, maybe. Something-er. Somehow.
It's not a great question because it shouldn't matter. Jo shouldn't be making any space at all for it to matter. What that answer is. What that past might be. What that room might represent. But she's not as heartless as she'd ever wish, no matter how she might be able to carry that mask, marry herself blood and breath to that task without a flick of hesitation, and use it as needed in certain circumstances.
"Maybe because you look like someone drug you straight through hell in less than two minutes--" A feat in itself. "And it might give me something more than those wrong assumptions of mine, that you're so fond of pointing out, to go on?"
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Which, with a look up, is gone as though it was never there, to begin with.
Then, back. Maybe not as bad as up there. Wrung out by both things, though. Jo pushes up from her crouch, and it's hard not to be struck by the weirdness of looking down at him. It's for granted how tall he is, and it's not fitting to say it makes him look small. He's just as broad, and there's still just as much body akimbo vertical on the ground rather than upward. But.
But smaller, maybe. Something-er. Somehow.
It's not a great question because it shouldn't matter. Jo shouldn't be making any space at all for it to matter. What that answer is. What that past might be. What that room might represent. But she's not as heartless as she'd ever wish, no matter how she might be able to carry that mask, marry herself blood and breath to that task without a flick of hesitation, and use it as needed in certain circumstances.
"Maybe because you look like someone drug you straight through hell in less than two minutes--" A feat in itself. "And it might give me something more than those wrong assumptions of mine, that you're so fond of pointing out, to go on?"