geralte sent : ‘ I have worn nothing but blood and death for years. ‘
SINNER LAUGHS ; a woman made , unmade , reformed . the viciousness of her glints in ruby shades . blood on marbled floors . a sash of red hair , like a throat cut . teeth white , too white , always too white . she leans her head into the palm of her hand , tongue pink and bright touching delicately to a flash of fangs . strange , how vehemently life gleams on her : a stolen product , not meant for her . there is a grave in the world , waiting , engraved with a name and epithet meant for her , but death himself will have to drag her there . she will not lay of her own accord .
‘ oh , but how handsome it has made you , witcher . ‘ a purr of practiced heat . beautiful , beckoning in her simulacra of living . then , a moment of sobriety : the cat is no longer smiling , no longer playing . she touches a hand to his chest , sticky with crimson . not his , and foul enough that even she will not deign a taste . her nose wrinkles . ‘ this is the closest to holy we get . covered in blood . ‘
a hand to his cheek . comfort , so rarely offered , free of seduction and motives if only for a moment ! ‘ it isn’t so terrible . ‘ and the moment passes , dawn breaks , and she smiles .
