G/eralt with: rainstorm ⛈, sneezes 🤧, colds 🦠, and cold medicine 💊 please
It had been a horrible season everywhere.
No matter which part of the continent that Geralt traveled to for contracts always seemed to be enduring an onslaught of stormy weather.
He was beginning to wonder if he had been cursed when he had arrived in a small fishing village to pick up a couple contracts on Drowners and it was, yet again, raining as if the sky had held back a great tide until this very moment.
It was as he was packing up the saddle bags on Roach when the slow and overwhelming pull of a tickle rose up at the back of his sinuses and brought forth tears unbidden to his eyes.
He paused momentarily to grasp Roach’s saddle as he felt his breath catch and his chest swell with a mighty inhale.
The tickle held fast and left him in a strange and agonizing purgatory until it finally reached it’s peak and his voice swooped sharply higher as he ducked into a punishing trio.
HHh-! HAEE’SHOO! ..Hih’ESSSHIIIEW! Hh-! hih’ HAESSSH! Ughh…
He staggered slightly in the after math, the crease high on the bridge of his nose threatening a fourth before after long last the feeling faded, leaving the poor Witcher unsatisfied and sniffly.
He heaved a sigh, one would have been easily explained away but three was almost unheard of. He gave Roach a thoughtful scratch behind the ear as he listened to the rain pounding on the stable’s roof.
In the end, with a thick burbling sniffle, he decided it wasn’t worth the crowns a few Drowners would bring to go out in the storm as it was.
He had a few herbs he could mix into a medicine to help expedite this process along, but he figured it would only take a day or two at most for his Witcher constitution to eradicate the virus.
“Looks like we ged the nighd off, eh Roach?”, he said, his voice catching as it scraped uncomfortably from his throat. He made a face and began to unsaddle her as he tried valiantly to hold back the tide of mucus that threatened to interfere.
Just one more day…