ONCE UPON A TIME : a man with a sword embarked on a quest to save the world. begrudging and thankless, countless lives, dozens of damned devils, demons, and dogs… all to fulfill a destiny — but DESTINY, as we all know, never tires of those she has grown fond, heaping horrific heartbreak and hellish heights to all whom follow her call.
ONCE UPON A TIME : a man with two swords embarked on the world with no quest and no destiny to speak of ( or so he’d like to tell himself. )
though DESTINY, as she is wont to do, sought her prey in a wicked, wandering way — a foolhardy joke, a crass attempt at humor: acerbic wit and sarcastic tongue, flaunted in her face like so many ARIADNEs and ODYSSEUSs before him. oh, you never learn, mortals: you don’t FUCK with DESTINY.
though, of course, the man with two swords — the Witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf, all of the above yet none at all — GERALT OF RIVIA refused, outright rejected DESTINY’s attempts to woo and, later, beat him into submission. to no avail, of course, because as we all know, DESTINY never tires of those she has grown fond.
which means, of course, that no matter where GERALT OF RIVIA finds himself — in this case, a land unfamiliar to most and barely recognizable to his Senses — each person, place, and thing retains significance over him, like some two-cent tease toying with the tip of his…
TONGUE licks lips like lozenges, tasting and testing — tip of the tongue, the teeth, the lips. Senses blur, and synesthetic vision sees… something, just as soon as tickled tongue slips slowly behind tailored teeth.
tick,
lick,
snick —
a branch, snapped.
heavy boots. clinking metal. sweat, leather, hair dye?
no, but a chemical stink.
sight makes way for a plume of scent to be seen,
tracing, lacing, gracing a pacing figure,
ninety-four meters south southwest, and headed further west.
roach, ever inquisitive, ever sensing, lowers his braided bronzed neck and whinnies softly, signaling that yes, indeed:
a murmur to his steed to calm the stirring beast, AXII'D into stillness and submission as the Witcher drops leather leads and strives forward solo. due south, to avoid crossing streams and paths, and the chemical stink blends with that of his bounty:
a BEHEMOTH, they burbled with bated breaths. villagers never quite knew what to say around the Butcher. honestly, he might be more talkative if others would talk to him more. but now’s not the time for such psychoanalyses.
swift, sure steps upon sodden leaves and snow: south, south, south, until the scent Sense curves toward a something.
no.
a someone.
no BEHEMOTHs here. just…
a soldier.
sun glints on steel.
HUMAN — minus the chemical stink.
Silver, then, just in case.
sword unsheathes with nary a whisper, remnants of oils and fluids of all manner of creatures greasing the gilded blade. a gloved hand grips, blade pressed against taut forearm to shade the silver from scintillating sun.
stealth — but for what?
no harm, no foul.
just in case.
from sixty meters, GERALT pauses to breathe in once more...
the chemical stink permeates.
the BEHEMOTH ? somewhere in between here and there —
his bounty’s scent,
CLOUDED by this… creature.
not human. not monster.
somewhere in between.
stormborns
dededos
snowghoul
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
prguitarman
gummygunk
baratheonpilled
