Mm. There it is. What always lies under all that talk.
It's funny. How it falls into place, given space and time to grow. Oscillating between his fight for greater and ideals, and laying out his bloodthirsty history in the next breath—it's hard not to get the inkling, now that the elf has shown his hand, as though Estinien from the start wanted solely to get something from him: the satisfaction of a reaction, of a confession. Perhaps that's why he's been so relentless, playing one card after the next: Yennefer, this damn war, dramatic fucking threats. Why even now, he's still here, still will not shut up, a dog with a bone. Going on about concern for comforts as if he's doing a favour by coming here with his bullshit. It's both typical and tiring to be faced with people that far up their own ass.
But Estinien is not the first who's come into the Witcher's space unannounced with the intentions to start a fight, demanded his head, warned him of consequences, sunk claws into the scars they glimpse. Tried to get a rise out of him, because they're bored, because he's an easy target in the right place at the wrong time, because they want him to bite like the monster they see him as. He takes it all the same; a century is a long time to learn not to flinch.
Geralt's eyes haven't left Estinien's since, but when the elf rises, his gaze doesn't bother to follow. The flames in the hearth lower, then gently snuff out—an indication, perhaps, that he's about to leave this plane, whether Estinien walks away first or not. He's wasted enough time. Estinien has come here claiming what he has; Geralt will take him at his word. Maybe there are deeper motivations at play, maybe there aren't—where the few who mean anything (everything) to him are concerned, he has better priorities than cracking the surface of those who choose to put themselves in front of him as a threat. That's all there is to it.
"You have a lot on your mind." The yellow of his eyes catch the remaining torchlight—expression not bored nor even unaffected, but devoid altogether. A practiced emptiness. "Don't let me keep you."
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It's funny. How it falls into place, given space and time to grow. Oscillating between his fight for greater and ideals, and laying out his bloodthirsty history in the next breath—it's hard not to get the inkling, now that the elf has shown his hand, as though Estinien from the start wanted solely to get something from him: the satisfaction of a reaction, of a confession. Perhaps that's why he's been so relentless, playing one card after the next: Yennefer, this damn war, dramatic fucking threats. Why even now, he's still here, still will not shut up, a dog with a bone. Going on about concern for comforts as if he's doing a favour by coming here with his bullshit. It's both typical and tiring to be faced with people that far up their own ass.
But Estinien is not the first who's come into the Witcher's space unannounced with the intentions to start a fight, demanded his head, warned him of consequences, sunk claws into the scars they glimpse. Tried to get a rise out of him, because they're bored, because he's an easy target in the right place at the wrong time, because they want him to bite like the monster they see him as. He takes it all the same; a century is a long time to learn not to flinch.
Geralt's eyes haven't left Estinien's since, but when the elf rises, his gaze doesn't bother to follow. The flames in the hearth lower, then gently snuff out—an indication, perhaps, that he's about to leave this plane, whether Estinien walks away first or not. He's wasted enough time. Estinien has come here claiming what he has; Geralt will take him at his word. Maybe there are deeper motivations at play, maybe there aren't—where the few who mean anything (everything) to him are concerned, he has better priorities than cracking the surface of those who choose to put themselves in front of him as a threat. That's all there is to it.
"You have a lot on your mind." The yellow of his eyes catch the remaining torchlight—expression not bored nor even unaffected, but devoid altogether. A practiced emptiness. "Don't let me keep you."