[ If there's one thing Geralt has learned about the Horizon—at least when it comes to creations formed from his mind—it's that if he cannot will it away, he often can physically destroy it. Or force it back together.
In other words, he's been doing a bit of...trimming. Where the leshy is concerned. Part of him tries not to think about it too hard. Does not seek out the leshy itself, afraid it will not take shape of the monster but of the corrupted mutated face of one of his brothers. Instead, he hacks at the crawling vines, burns away the roots and tendrils with a torch. It isn't a solution, exactly. Hell, he can't even say why he's bothering. Just.
He's fucking tired of his head twisting up his damn place. This is not near the first time it's occurred.
Fortuitously for his guest, it means Geralt hears the lashing vines, the voice, immediately. He moves towards it. The sword, heated red, is probably easier to spot first through the thick snow than the man who wields it. It comes down on the first vine, then the next. They withdraw, falling in chunks against the snow—but the creature is already rearing for another strike.
Geralt grabs the man (elf, he realizes) by the arm. Real monsters can be slain. This one cannot. ] Move.
no subject
In other words, he's been doing a bit of...trimming. Where the leshy is concerned. Part of him tries not to think about it too hard. Does not seek out the leshy itself, afraid it will not take shape of the monster but of the corrupted mutated face of one of his brothers. Instead, he hacks at the crawling vines, burns away the roots and tendrils with a torch. It isn't a solution, exactly. Hell, he can't even say why he's bothering. Just.
He's fucking tired of his head twisting up his damn place. This is not near the first time it's occurred.
Fortuitously for his guest, it means Geralt hears the lashing vines, the voice, immediately. He moves towards it. The sword, heated red, is probably easier to spot first through the thick snow than the man who wields it. It comes down on the first vine, then the next. They withdraw, falling in chunks against the snow—but the creature is already rearing for another strike.
Geralt grabs the man (elf, he realizes) by the arm. Real monsters can be slain. This one cannot. ] Move.