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[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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[vixening]

[ she does not say anything further. barely so much as moves, once she settles. the image of his back is what she remembers, when she closes his eyes - him, turning away from her. him, leaving her behind. and perhaps there is so much more to the story that she does not remember, and maybe she never will. yennefer accepts this sort of finality with very little concern, because in the end, she finds it does not matter. she will leave this place, and the last thing she will remember is his back.

some part of her thinks that maybe, perhaps, that is better. that he is here, physically here, when she closes her eyes. she does not know why it would be that way, and isn't exactly sure she cares.

gwiazda lets out a huff of a breath, final and somehow annoyed, and yennefer feels a smile tug at the corners of her lips. feels similarly, as she runs her hand across his fur, and closes her eyes. he can probably hear her breathing, can probably feel her and the wolf's weight on the bed.

( she can feel his, still sitting at the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch if she did want to reach out to him. she does not. )

he can, until he doesn't, but even that - somehow - feels familiar. ]

[gynvael]

[ The silence is heavy. Her heart beats steadily, quicker than his own, and beside her, he can smell the fur of the wolf, hear its soft breaths. He is not alone, for once, and he wants to be. He wants to be, except he doesn’t, and then he is.

He needn’t look. Still, he turns. He wants to be wrong, to be surprised to find her still there, sleeping. She isn’t.

The hollow in his chest grows a little wider. It’s funny. Every time he expects what’s coming, every time he sees it from miles away, he thinks it’ll hurt less. And every time, he’s reminded it does not. He catches her scent for a few moments more before it fades entirely. The spot on the bed beside him is cold. As if she were never here. He supposes, in all the ways that count, she wasn’t.

He wonders what it’d be like, to turn around and for once find that he isn’t alone.

When he leaves, he shuts the door behind him. The torches are snuffed out through the keep, the candles unlit, the hearth only full of old ashes. He doesn’t look back a second time. He knows better. Those who leave him do not return for him. He’d hardly expect them to, either. ]