abraxas:: INBOX

[gynvael]

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Geralt is always reachable by the network. Unless it's an emergency, expect not to hear back for a few hours, if not a few days.

To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.

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[righteously]

( He snorts softly at pet monster, eyes dropping, head slowly shaking. Yeah, no, that sounds like him. His brand of douchebaggery. He doesn't bother commenting, doesn't bother with you know that's not how it is or any of the other platitudes he could offer right now. It's not true, they both know it, it's not even worth entertaining long enough to waste his breath.

This is something he'll think about in the not too distant future — the fact that even after that confrontation, this feels solid. The fact that he doesn't even question it. That he knows with an instinctive certainty that they're both on the same page about where they stand with each other, and how rare that is in his life. He'll think about that about an hour and a half after he realizes he's ruined it. )

Yeah.

( He grunts finally — if anything changes, he'll speak up. )

Anyway, the blade's not here, so. How bad could it be?

( As long as that thing's far away from him, the progression should be slow enough that he's got plenty of time to figure it out. It's not like he's gonna suddenly wake up with the ability to summon the thing or something, that would just be downright nuts.

They pack up. Get their shit together. Head back into town. Something about the way the conversation ends feels... unfinished. Off somehow, one shade to the left in a way he couldn't put his finger on if he tried. It's nothing specific, it's nothing Geralt says or doesn't say, it's nothing he says, he just feels it. This sensation somewhere deep down in his gut: something is wrong. )