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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"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.

Geralt fought with reflexes that Bull rarely saw used together. Like dancing, but with killing. The flash of flame brought him back to the moment - Geralt had a harpy on top of him, and Bull had to imagine that was uncomfortable. And putrid.

With a grunt he kicked the strange monster as hard as he could, intent on getting it away from Geralt without hurting him with a blade.

With a quick somersault, Geralt put Bull and the silver sword between himself and the harpy. While it was true that Geralt had a witcher's healing, Iron Bull was a wall of muscle. Geralt was too pragmatic in the heat of violence to not use that as part of the battlefield itself.

He reached for the bow and bolt he'd dropped and took the bolt in hand. The last harpy had landed, surrounding them.

"Thanks," he muttered, before rushing the bird, jamming the bolt into its eye socket until he heard it scrape.

Bull swung the sword as he spun; it wasn't as heavy as the weapons he was used to, which he usually used to build momentum. It was good for hitting multiple targets, and it was good for making them move where he wanted them to move. He swung hard at two nearest to him, trying to make sure nothing came for Geralt's back.

He stopped depending fully on his eyesight at some point - he was moving too quick, and it was getting too dark to focus easily with just one eye. But he could hear them, and he could smell them, and he could feel them. That was all he needed.

Geralt dropped the harpy, twitching but braindead, and turned to Bull again to see he'd cleaned the field with the sword, using an armspan Geralt could only envy. A witcher sword was light, true, but razor-honed.

Geralt looked away for a moment, panting strangely. His body was made to fiht more viciously and frenziedly the longer he fought. It was only age and experience that kept him from simply turning that frustrated energy on his ally, a skill younger witchers, like Lambert, usually hadn't fully managed.

"Nice downswing. Try not to break it next time, though. I'm poor."

For a moment Bull didn't answer the comment, just watched Geralt. He was breathing strange, and Bull knew a thing or two about battle frenzy. He was ready.

Still, eventually he turned his focus back on the carcasses.

"Been a while since I worked with a weapon this light," he admitted. It was a longsword for someone Geralt's size, but it was less so for him.

Soon enough, he had control over his endocrine system again. Geralt knelt by Bull to pull an undamaged harpy eye from a socket, before grabbing two carcasses by one wing each and dragging them toward the befouled nest.

"Time for some housekeeping."

Before tossing them on, he examined the nest, looking for something.

"Lots of fawn. Horse. Sheep. Human. Ah -- there it is."

"There's what?" Bull asked as he came closer, curious. "And you grabbed the eye, what for?"

Just because he had an bred-in distrust of magic didn't mean that he didn't occasionally get curious about things, like when Dorian gleefully asked someone to harvest various monster parts after a fight.

"Extracting genetic material. A mutagen can be prepared from it. Administered to a witcher, it makes them temporarily more ... harpy. They stink, but they have excellent eyesight."

Geralt scrubbed at the back of his head with a bloodied hand. Then, carefully, sifted through the detritus to pull out a gold crucifix on a chain.

And, more importantly, a faintly humming moonstone cabochon set in silver. He tossed it to Bull.

"Smell familiar?"

Bull made a face. He knew that all of Geralt's decoctions and mutagens gave him impressive advantages in the field, but still. "Sounds rough."

He'd seen the witcher when the toxicity started getting to him.

He caught the bauble Geralt tossed to him. "Smells like harpy. But it looks - and feels - familiar. Can't wait to see Dorian's face when he finds out where we found this." His voice softened, gentled at the mention of the mage.

"It's a living," Geralt deadpanned. Because that was what it was. He got paid well to torture and pervert himself in pursuit of his quarry.

He pulled the carcasses onto the nest and lit the thing on fire. It discouraged resettling -- and corpse-eaters.

"Didn't think I found you by accident, did you? See. I care."

Bull chuckled and tucked the necklace away in a small pouch on his hip. He'd try to clean it off some before he gave it back to Dorian; he was pretty sure he knew where the silver polish was.

"Digging through harpy guts out of the kindness of your heart, Dorian'll be really touched."

"Mm-hm. I'm a witcher and a philanthropist. A man of varied talents."

Geralt continued with his duty of cleaning up, dragging another mangled body onto the roaring flames. The smell was a horrifying combination of sewage in summer and roast pheasant. Now he was hungry, and mad about it.

"You any better?"

If the scent bothered Bull, he didn't let on. He'd done his share of destroying monsters all over Thedas. He watched the fire, also feeling weirdly hungry.

He imagined Dorian's appalled voice and smiled a little. The look faded at Geralt's question.

Bull touched his mouth, the puncture wounds on the far side of it. "Somewhat," he answered. "There's still a demon out there fucking things up."

"Vesemir's advice would be that a smart man would leave it alone and let it be mage's business."

Geralt wiped his nose, before packing up his crossbow and settling in to meticulously clean his swords. A witcher lacking diligence was a dead witcher.

"Was never very good at listening to the old man."

Bull snorted a laugh. "Yeah, I wouldn't be either, with advice like that. Dorian would say he's very sensible."

He stood guard while Geralt cleaned his swords; maybe there was no need, as the wood was rather quiet, but Bull hadn't lived this long taking chances.

"I'll try to resist the urge to sew my mouth shut," he conceded. "But if it gets in my head again, I make no promises."

"Yeah, but is he?" Geralt's bland tone somehow managed dubiousness. He'd known a lot of sorceresses and would never have described a one as sensible. Milva, Shani -- Calanthe, thy were sensible. Triss, Yenn? Not so much.

He swept his oil rag down the sword's fuller.

"That thing gets in your head, I punch it. Can't do shit if you're unconscious."

Edited 2018-05-24 16:37 (UTC)

"You're a good friend," he said dryly, but he did appreciate the offer. Krem probably would have made the same one, but Bull couldn't quite bring this to his lieutenant's door.

Krem needed him to have strength, had needed it since Hild disappeared. He could give that to him.

But Geralt was not Qun and he was not Viddathari and he was not Tevinter. Geralt did not need his strength or his faith. Not right now, anyway.

Geralt snorted. Then he grew quiet for a long moment. He finished his chore, sheathed his weapons. Sensing the wood was calm again, the katydids sang to life again, and then the whipporwhils.

"I'll look into it, if you want. No promises. It's outside my usual wheelhouse."

Bull shook his head. "Heard a rumor someone was on it, someone more knowledgeable about this particular kind of thing than me or even you. I don't like staying out of it, but maybe it's better."

The rumors all said it was Biffy and his Lyall on the case, which gave Bull all the more reason to stay away from it all. He didn't want to step on toes when he and Biffy had finally reached peace.

"Heard the same. Just unfamiliar. And cynical."

Geralt picked a stone from his boot, flicked it at the Bull.

"How's Krem? Still a shit?"

He meant it in the fondest possible way. Ciri was also a shit.