Geralt of Rivia (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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childrenofbahamutlogs2026-01-04 09:26 am
lovelybottom) wrote in childrenofbahamutlogs2026-01-04 09:26 am
Entry tags:
[closed] hey ma that weird-looking cat is back
WHO: Geralt of Rivia and Angeal
WHAT: Geralt endures the worst of his dragon transformation while camped out in the orchard
WHERE: The orchard with the weird apples
WHEN: January, because Geralt is an asshole
WARNINGS: Geralt's self-destructive tendency to endure injury without complaint or aid. Fairly graphic depictions of body horror.
SUMMARY: The dragon transformation is inevitable; its shittiness is exacerbated by Geralt's stubborn determination to endure it with the stoic suffering that is a witcher's lot.
It is winter, and the bare branches of the orchard stretch up into the cold grey sky. Dark, reaching fingers against a bright field during the day; black on black at night, when only distant stars are visible.
Geralt had been camping in the orchard for some time, and that had suited him well enough. He'd camped in worse conditions, especially in autumn when the weather was still relatively mild. Food was an easy procurement, and though there are, technically, owners for this land, they seem content with allowing Geralt's presence so long as he doesn't cause trouble. This arrangement had been suitable.
Then the changes started; subtly at first, inobtrusively. A smattering of dull scales, the suggestion of fangs. Easily covered and concealed, especially when the weather turned colder. Geralt was used to wearing his hood up in a human community, so doing it again to hide a few scaly patches on his face or the faint protrusion of horns was normal enough. He had no luck in stopping the changes, though, and not for lack of trying; they are, apparently, inevitable. He dislikes the idea of it, and the inevitability, and the lack of choice-- but he's a witcher. His life has never provided him with an overabundance of choice.
The changes get worse. The horns push from his skull, splitting through flesh and skin; his nails fall out one by one, growing claws in their place. The scales spread, itching and aching as his skin sloughs off in sheets. He is grateful for his physiology and its immunity from infection, otherwise he's fairly certain that his injuries would have soured long before he ever finished whatever this transformation has in store for him. A slow death from sepsis seems like a foolish outcome, but apparently most of the population has avoided it in one way or another. Perhaps his witcher physiology, being already mutated, resists the additional changes; perhaps the resistance makes the current alterations worse. Perhaps it would have always been debilitating. Geralt has no real choice but to endure it, and does so in the privacy of his orchard camp.
There is also a voice in his head. Out of all of the things that have happened to him, he likes this the least. It resists exorcism and expulsion with a quiet patience that he has decided that he does not appreciate.
When he awakens by the dim light of his campfire in the equally dim light of early morning, it's because of a new, fresh horror that's been inflicted upon him-- the aching pressure at his back has reached its zenith. Something has torn through the skin, though only incompletely; ripping flesh in ragged strips along with what remains of his shirt. Wings, he thinks through the searing fucking agony of having said appendages partially restricted by the tattered remnants of what once had been the muscle and sinew of his back and shoulders.
This is a problem. This may even be a Problem, because though Geralt is certain that he can't die from infection, he is still capable of succumbing to blood loss and hypothermia. Judging from the breath that steams white in front of his face, the creeping chill in his limbs, and the wet fabric that clings to his skin, both of these concerns are present. One clawed, scaled hand that he barely recognizes as his own anymore presses into the frosted dirt; the other follows. Both are used to lever himself from the ground, and, as he reaches an upright position, he hears the wet sound of his own blood hitting the earth followed by the awful squelching thump of ragged tissue after. He hauls himself to his feet. This reveals that said ragged lump of tissue has not entirely disconnected from the rest of him, and drags behind him like an unwanted cloak.
An inconvenience. Geralt will need to remove the hanging flesh at some point, to keep it out of the way. Dispose of it so that it doesn't attract animals. Additional tasks in what's becoming a disturbing to-do list.
WHAT: Geralt endures the worst of his dragon transformation while camped out in the orchard
WHERE: The orchard with the weird apples
WHEN: January, because Geralt is an asshole
WARNINGS: Geralt's self-destructive tendency to endure injury without complaint or aid. Fairly graphic depictions of body horror.
SUMMARY: The dragon transformation is inevitable; its shittiness is exacerbated by Geralt's stubborn determination to endure it with the stoic suffering that is a witcher's lot.
It is winter, and the bare branches of the orchard stretch up into the cold grey sky. Dark, reaching fingers against a bright field during the day; black on black at night, when only distant stars are visible.
Geralt had been camping in the orchard for some time, and that had suited him well enough. He'd camped in worse conditions, especially in autumn when the weather was still relatively mild. Food was an easy procurement, and though there are, technically, owners for this land, they seem content with allowing Geralt's presence so long as he doesn't cause trouble. This arrangement had been suitable.
Then the changes started; subtly at first, inobtrusively. A smattering of dull scales, the suggestion of fangs. Easily covered and concealed, especially when the weather turned colder. Geralt was used to wearing his hood up in a human community, so doing it again to hide a few scaly patches on his face or the faint protrusion of horns was normal enough. He had no luck in stopping the changes, though, and not for lack of trying; they are, apparently, inevitable. He dislikes the idea of it, and the inevitability, and the lack of choice-- but he's a witcher. His life has never provided him with an overabundance of choice.
The changes get worse. The horns push from his skull, splitting through flesh and skin; his nails fall out one by one, growing claws in their place. The scales spread, itching and aching as his skin sloughs off in sheets. He is grateful for his physiology and its immunity from infection, otherwise he's fairly certain that his injuries would have soured long before he ever finished whatever this transformation has in store for him. A slow death from sepsis seems like a foolish outcome, but apparently most of the population has avoided it in one way or another. Perhaps his witcher physiology, being already mutated, resists the additional changes; perhaps the resistance makes the current alterations worse. Perhaps it would have always been debilitating. Geralt has no real choice but to endure it, and does so in the privacy of his orchard camp.
There is also a voice in his head. Out of all of the things that have happened to him, he likes this the least. It resists exorcism and expulsion with a quiet patience that he has decided that he does not appreciate.
When he awakens by the dim light of his campfire in the equally dim light of early morning, it's because of a new, fresh horror that's been inflicted upon him-- the aching pressure at his back has reached its zenith. Something has torn through the skin, though only incompletely; ripping flesh in ragged strips along with what remains of his shirt. Wings, he thinks through the searing fucking agony of having said appendages partially restricted by the tattered remnants of what once had been the muscle and sinew of his back and shoulders.
This is a problem. This may even be a Problem, because though Geralt is certain that he can't die from infection, he is still capable of succumbing to blood loss and hypothermia. Judging from the breath that steams white in front of his face, the creeping chill in his limbs, and the wet fabric that clings to his skin, both of these concerns are present. One clawed, scaled hand that he barely recognizes as his own anymore presses into the frosted dirt; the other follows. Both are used to lever himself from the ground, and, as he reaches an upright position, he hears the wet sound of his own blood hitting the earth followed by the awful squelching thump of ragged tissue after. He hauls himself to his feet. This reveals that said ragged lump of tissue has not entirely disconnected from the rest of him, and drags behind him like an unwanted cloak.
An inconvenience. Geralt will need to remove the hanging flesh at some point, to keep it out of the way. Dispose of it so that it doesn't attract animals. Additional tasks in what's becoming a disturbing to-do list.
no subject
So, yeah, they still have to pay a lot of attention to what's happening in the orchard. Maybe especially because of the stray that's taken up residence along the edges of it, antisocial mess that he is. And on a good chunk of days, Genesis is more than happy to preen over it all himself.
But in the winter? Well...
Genesis, in his heart, will always remain a bit of a spoiled brat who wants to be pampered. Angeal long made his peace with this. That's why, when it gets a little colder than his soulmate can stomach, he's the one who gets up early in the morning and sets out to check in on the trees. Sometimes he even says hello to Geralt, maybe forces bread on him, little things like that. It's just become part of the schedule now; life is always so weird for him that it might as well happen like this.
That's how it seems like it's going to go when he comes back from the bakery to do the usual check up on the orchard. The usual routine.
Up until the wind shifts just right, and there's a sharp tang against his nose.
The smell of blood could mean just about anything, out here. An animal dying on the grounds. Something that got injured. A host of weirder things that he's had to get used to since living in this world in particular. However way you cut it, however, that means it's something that needs his attention.
Unfortunately, the wind isn't as reliable as he'd like, and with his sense of smell downgraded in this world, it takes Angeal just a minute to follow its source. Just a quick sweep of the situation from a distance tells him all he needs to know; this isn't even his first rodeo. "Shit."
They're going to have to move fast and efficiently in order to get this covered. Unfortunately, well, he's dealing with a man who opted to live in an orchard rather than get a house like a normal person, so he already has a feeling this is going to be difficult. Good thing he's a difficult kind of guy. So, stepping forward in plain view to make sure he doesn't startle the other, Angeal holds his hand out. "Let's get you over to the barn. I should be able to patch you up a little bit while the process works itself out. Take care of all the blood."
no subject
Something that Geralt would've taken a contract on.
The man-- ah, the soldier-turned-baker. Geralt remembers him; he smells strange and would sometimes leave bread for him. An unasked-for kindness, but a kindness nonetheless. Geralt watches him approach from across his guttering campfire, still a mess, still dragging around bloody flesh. Technically, his sword is still within arm's reach, even if he's uncertain as to how well he'd be able to wield it in his own defense.
There's no denying that Angeal is correct in saying that Geralt requires aid, because even if he is generally adequate at attending to his own wounds, he physically can't reach the ones on his back in any effective way. Another set of hands are necessary, and Geralt doesn't really have anyone else around at the moment to help-- prudence would suggest that he accept the help that's given. Go with him, assume that if he meant harm, he wouldn't have gone about it in such a round-about way.
In his head, the voice that he can't seem to get rid of says, He's right. You should go with him.
And while that is, of course, right, Geralt can't help but chafe against the words of the too-reasonable voice. Voices in your head, even in Geralt's world, are a bad sign. Mental instability at best, possession at worst. Geralt is fairly certain that he's as mentally stable as any witcher can be, so the only conclusion left is that he's been possessed by something annoyingly persistent. The reasonableness of the voice doesn't mitigate the fact that he doesn't want it there at all.
"This doesn't concern you," he says aloud, turning his head as though to address someone standing next to him-- intending it for the voice rather than Angeal.
Look. It's fine. He's just talking to himself, there's nothing wrong with that at all.
no subject
Or both.
However, well, it's been a year now since he's been in this land, and a year since he's had to deal with his own hitchhiker. Angeal gets it. He really does. Especially since he can do the rough math in his own head, and figure, yeah. Yeah, it is definitely around the time when they should be particularly louder. What that means for this guy? He has no idea. Every dragon appears to be a little bit different.
That's something that can be figured out later. Blood loss is the priority right now, so Angeal steps even closer so he can investigate the hot mess that is Geralt's back to figure out the best way to help him along.
"Alright, I'm going to let you use my weight to help you stabilize yourself, and then we'll just keep walking, ok? I'll have one of the others come back for your stuff." Not that it's like there's too much here, roughing it out in the wilderness as he's obviously been doing, but still. A bit of reassurance before he puts his hands on Geralt. "On 3, alright?"