shok_ebasit_hissra | (no subject)

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Bull took a deep breath and closed his eye for a moment, debating the course of action he was about to take. There was something out there getting into people's heads, making them do things they wouldn't normally do. It had happened to him, which shook him down to his bones.

But he could not take himself out of this equation, not yet. He could not hunt something down and kill it if he was dead. He couldn't leave Dorian and Krem without first giving them the chance to figure this out, to help, to end it.

All he knew was that he'd had something in his head, and he'd lost control of himself. Even if what happened was ridiculous, he couldn't let it go.

So he sat in the woods, away from home and away from Dorian's shock or horror, with an awl he used to repair leather and a length of strong cord. He did not want any more corruption coming out of him. He took another breath, and with a resolve that came from years of pure belief and knowing, he used the awl to pierce both lips and draw the cord through.

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"And what will sewing your face shut do about it? Aside from make you weak from hunger."

It was an honest question, without judgement. His concerns were yet practical. They usually were.

Geralt gave a sneeze and shook his head like a hunting hound. Bull's blood smelled of death from above.

"Takes a while for a guy my size to get weak from hunger," he rumbled. Bull shook his head a bit and looked off to the side. He felt a tiny tug of shame. This felt like weakness, but it also felt like reassurance, and resolve.

"It was in my head, Geralt. Somehow, it was in my head."

Yeah, that sounded like a demon. But thee was no point belaboring Bull's assessment. Geralt reached out to gently pull the leather lacing back out from the corner of Bull's grey mouth.

"There's a better solution just yet. Use your rational mind. Not your reactionary one. Not lecturing. Just been there. Been there a lot, for a witcher."

He plucked some green, young leaves from his pocket and tucked them into his cheek to chew them into a paste. It was bitter, but medicine always was.

Bull stayed still as Geralt pulled the rest of the cord free. The wounds bled, but he didn't seem particularly bothered. He could smell the herbs before Geralt's teeth started breaking them up. He knew it would sting when it was applied.

"I feel like something is pulling on my seams, Geralt," he said quietly. For months he'd been keeping his new memories to himself, or trying to. He still hadn't given Dorian any details, but the scars were there to see every time he was shirtless. Which, at home, was often.

Now he'd had a demon in his head.

He wanted to kill something, but there was nothing to kill yet.

"Because something is. Don't give it the negativity it wants. They hate when you resist. Hate even more when you beat them at their own games."

Plucking the masticated herbs from his cheek, he smeared it into the bleeding holes on Bull's face. Geralt's saliva was sterile. Ideal for the job.

"The eye is one thing. You scar up your mouth, you'll be pissed every day of your life. At least, according to Eskel."

Bull huffed quietly, almost a laugh. He knew Dorian would worry, and his options were to hide or talk about it. He would go home; he would talk about it, if Dorian asked.

Dorian would almost certainly ask. Bull could hear his voice in his head now, which was almost comforting, Amatus! What happened, let me look. No, don't talk, let me look.

He loved that man.

"How did Eskel do it?"

Geralt sat heavily, though even seated,the Bull loomed over him. The bones in his leg ached. He'd been caught up in dance too many times.

"It's a long story." But Eskkel always loved to shoot the shit, so why not. Still, Geralt's version was abridged. As usual.

"Was a real sonnuvabitch. His daughter was the one who tore up half his face. She was born under a bad sky. Cursed to be ... to be unfortunate. Never stopped the bastard from being a loverat. Asshole."

Edited 2018-05-03 22:46 (UTC)

"There are some weird details in there that you're not sharing," he said with a wry sort of smile. The look faded as he looked at the woods ahead of them.

"Under the Qun, anyone born being able to wield magic, able to tap into the Fade like that, is not trusted. Their connection means they can be possessed, they can be corrupted. Sometimes we sew their mouths shut."

"Was never a good storyteller. Left that to the bard."

The witcher shifted a little where he sat. The subject bordered on the uncomfortable, not because of the qunari, but because of Geralt's snarled past.

"Distrusting sorcery is only wisdom. Still, I wouldn't go sewing any mouths shut. Trusting them too much is naivety. Pissing them off? Flagrant recklessness."

Geralt grimaced, and thought of violet eyes and lilac and gooseberries.

"Yeah, we kept them on a tight leash to avoid that. Saarebas under the Qun would usually take their own lives if separated from their Arvaarads, or someone else will kill them. I won't say that it's right. But having seen abominations, I also understand the fear."

In the same way that he understood Vivienne's support of the southern Circles, in the same way that he understood how chafed Dorian felt at the mere mention of them.

He looked over at Geralt. "Watch out for whatever this thing is. It's making people do ridiculous things, but that doesn't make it less dangerous."

"Mmhm," Geralt promised flatly. If there were others around to handle it, he would let them. He wouldn't deal with it without a king's ransom. He was, after all, a witcher.

"There was a massacre, years ago. Pogrom marched on the keep. Killed everyone that was there that winter, only witchers that survived were traveling. Happened at every school eventually that year. Killed most of us, a few hundred in all. Out of fear."

He left his thoughts on fear at that.

"You ever hunted harpies?"

Edited 2018-05-04 03:50 (UTC)

"I understand the fear," he said, though he hoped his tone made it clear that he did not condone the murder of the witchers, just as he thought it was a bad idea to keep mages under lock and key until someone felt rebellion was the only choice. "But it should not have happened."

He shook his head and rolled his shoulders as Geralt shifted the subject. "No, not that I know of. Something tells me I'd remember if I had."

Bull was respecting Geralt's disappointment in humanity, and that was all he cared to look for. He stood again and gingerly lifted his sword from his back. The silver-shod wolf emblem of the pommel glittered in the dusk light.

He tossed it to Bull.

Bull needed to work it out.

"They attack from the sky with talons. They scream. They'll vomit and shit on you. The vomit's corrosive, the shit's shit."

Bull caught the sword - the silver one - and made a face at the description. "Are you suggesting we go kill one right now?"

Made him wish he'd brought more to the woods than this small kit. He didn't think an awl would be useful against this harpy.

"Suggesting we go kill a nest of them right now, for money. You don't want to take that mood home."

Geralt nodded Bull up after him. The nest was nearby, at the top of the hill overlooking the farmland and briar fields. It would be a pretty spot, actually, once the nest was burnt.

"Not chicken are you?"

The witcher doubled down on his deadpan.

"Bawk bawk."

Edited 2018-05-06 23:27 (UTC)

Bull stared at Geralt after the most deadpan chicken sounds he'd ever heard. Then he laughed and with a grunt he got to his feet, balancing Geralt's silver sword over his shoulder. He looked up hill, wondering about the nest.

It'd be good to kill something that needed killing.

"You know if this witchering thing gets old, you could be the voice of one of those animal noise toys for children. Anything else I need to know about them?"

"Figured I'd just become an apple picker."

He chose a path up the hill that was shortest, rather than following the game trails or hiking paths. He knew the qunari could follow. With strength, if not the witcher's puma grace.

"They've started picking off livestock nearby. You'll be helping your boy out, even if he doesn't realize it."

They weren't far. He could catch the carrion stench on the breeze from the purple horizon.

"Krem is no one's boy."

Even if he knew Geralt didn't mean it in any particular way, Bull felt compelled to say something. He'd been protecting and building Krem up for a long time.

"But he would prefer his sheep and goats stay alive."

He could smell death and rotting as they climbed the hill. Death from battle smelled different, he decided. Then he wondered if Geralt noticed any different - his senses were more keen. "Hey, you ever think battle death and hunting death smell different?"

At Geralt's age, anyone under the age of fifty was a boy. But he understood where Bull was coming from, and respected it.

His foot dislodged a few small rocks and dust that trickled down behind him.

"Battle death smells like blood and rage and fear. Monster nest smells like rot and bad dreams and regret."

Bull moved, avoiding the tumbling rocks. He listened, and something about Geralt's comment made him tip his head, made him curious. It was easier to think about things like this; easier to ponder monsters in the world than the ones that might be in his head.

"Why would a monster nest smell like regret?"

"All of the cheapskates thqt got eaten because they got the idea they could save money by not hiring a professional."

They crested the hill a small distance away. The nest reeied. It was filthy, brown, red and white, the glint of bones, human and sheep.

Geralt pulled his crossbow off of his back.

"I'll get them down. You finish them."

He put himself to Bull's bad side.

Bull huffed a laugh when Geralt told him to finish off whatever came down. He was vaguely concerned about being a rank mess after this, but it wouldn't necessarily be the first time he'd striped in the back yard to avoid offending Dorian with clothes covered in monster viscera.

He really did like helping Geralt hunt.

He adjusted his grip on the sword and held it ready, his good eye focused on the nest. It smelled foul, and he imagined the harpies, whatever they were, weren't going to be much better.

"Ready," he rumbled low.

At the Bull's ready, Geralt snaked a hand to his belt and whipped a grenade toward the nest. The flash and bang scattered the creatures. They looked like the corpses of old hags, with huge talons and mangy wings.

He aimed for the first to locate them and pulled. The evil-looking bolt made its mark, biting into the harpy's wing.

It hit the ground heavily and skidded toward where Geralt stood. The witcher avoided it by springboarding, cat-like, from Bull's shoulders.

Bull turned his head to avoid looking right at the flash, but he did catch sight of the harpies. They were horrifying, and Bull suddenly had no qualms with killing them.

He grunted when Geralt used him to get out of the way; in a single, surprisingly quick movement, Bull swung the sword to catch the harpy's neck as soon as it was within reach, trying to avoid those talons and failing wings.

Maybe there was a trick to killing them, but he figured hacking off a head was a solid start.

Like a huge cat, the witcher folded himself over with an inhumanly agile spine, turning his momentum mid-air to hook the harpy head with the crook of his boot. It flew with deadly accuracy, knocking another of the creatures from flight.

He fell to the dirt. The wounded harpy fell atop him, struggling. Limbs tangled. Flames sparked angrily from Geralt's palms as he pressed it away.