[ Despite the restless energy, Geralt finds time to pause. It's something that, even now, sits deeply ingrained in him, though it's harder to stop and still for long the way he normally can. He's leaning against a tree, his sword casually propped up beside him. Relaxed stance aside, his ears are alert, sensitive to every sound.
So when he hears the rush of footsteps, he perks up. The figure crosses his vision, sharper than ever in the night. He watches him for a moment. No fur, but feathers. A scent that's familiar, but not wholly. He knows this one. Harpy. It's just different enough he can't be entirely sure.
His hand drops just a hint closer to the hilt of his sword. He doesn't grip it just yet, but it hovers near. ]
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So when he hears the rush of footsteps, he perks up. The figure crosses his vision, sharper than ever in the night. He watches him for a moment. No fur, but feathers. A scent that's familiar, but not wholly. He knows this one. Harpy. It's just different enough he can't be entirely sure.
His hand drops just a hint closer to the hilt of his sword. He doesn't grip it just yet, but it hovers near. ]
Certainly not in mine.