IT TAKES A PROFOUND LEVEL OF WEARINESS to sink down upon a park bench in the twilight hours, eyes half closed and backpack -- plain, black, darker than the skies above him -- slipping out of geralt’s hand onto the ground below. he’s hunted ten thousand beasts through the years if he were to take a meager guess. cut through flesh and ichor. chitin and thick fur. he rarely comes out without a wound as the years grow, even now a sluggish stream of blood threatens to drip through the sweater and jacket geralt’s forced over his t-shirt. his torn armor is hidden in the bag alongside swords, potions, a trophy from the fucker who gouged into his side. all locked up in such a miniscule container thanks to the magic that yennefer keeps flowing when she stops by.
needs a pick up. the bag has been getting too heavy, geralt thinks, eyes closed as he sags deeper into the bench beneath him. still even as roach shifts precariously upon his shoulders, her claws digging into fabric and a hoarse mew leaving the feline’s throat. one hand comes out to scratch at the back of her neck. the other remains sagging. relaxed. until a foreign scent strikes at the back of his throat, thick and rapidly approaching.
undeniably human. of course.
“only a fool would try to rob me,” geralt says without opening his eyes. “leave the bag alone. and the cat. otherwise, carry on, imagine you aren’t here to chat.”
