middaeg | ( OPEN ) just a pinch of salt in the wound; you'll be fine

Entry tags:

( OPEN ) just a pinch of salt in the wound; you'll be fine

Who: Geralt + ~~Victims~~ You
When: August // Aguril
Where: Various
What: Full moon feral shenanigans; events/quests later down the line
Warnings: Violence

[ prompts in comments. find me at

discontinued for plotting. ]

OPEN: feral wolf | post full moon | basement bonanza curses

CLOSED: feral wolf: jaskier+yennefer | antler fruit: jaskier

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

(( THE WILDE / EDGE OF THE WILDE; 08/03; night ))

[ It's not without precautions that Geralt has approached the full moon. He's more than aware of the risks. The problem, possibly, lies in the fact that he's taken precautions at all: either the concoction meant to sedate him leaves him vulnerable to the animal overtaking his mind or his attempt to quell it in the first place causes it to grip that much harder. If he remembers the snapping and stretching of bones and joints, it leaves him quickly once the shift is complete.

The wolf that stands in his place both blends easily into the snow and also not. He's noticeably larger than the average wolf, for one. Scars normally hidden under his clothes mark the creature's body, leaving a few patches of fur missing. A jagged line that runs across his back is especially visible. If there's still any room to doubt that this isn't a regular wolf, the jewelry might help, the medallion he's never seen without. Anyone familiar with the original one and with a keen eye will notice it's not silver but steel.

By now, there's only one thought on his mind: he's fucking hungry. ]

(( note: anyone is free to have their character either: 1. spot geralt out in the wilde but not interact with him; or 2. spot the evidence of what he did, i.e. blood in the snow, half-eaten deer, paw prints. you don't need to thread this out, just drop me a line so i know what they saw/did! if you want feral wolf geralt to injure or frighten your character in a specific way, let me know. i'm open to all sorts of things. ))

A. FIRST CHASE

[ The freshly fallen snow makes it easy to see the tracks he leaves behind. He's not too deep into the thick woods; even his instincts know to steer clear of where the Shades are more likely to gather together. Follow the tracks and you might start to spot a trail of blood in the snow, staining it dark. Go a little further to catch Geralt nose deep in a split-open deer, having his fill.

If you're close enough to see him, then you've caught his attention. If you're close and haven't seen him, you've still caught his attention lurking from the shadows. More than hunger, there's a deep drive to hunt. The motionless deer isn't nearly as interesting as live prey. It might take a second or he moves before you can blink; either way, there's a bear-sized wolf coming your way with teeth bared.

Still, whatever he's taken earlier in a (really fucking failed) attempt to suppress the change means he's a hint slower than he might be on a good night. Anyone quick on their feet can put a bit of distance between them before he starts catching up. ]

B. SLUMBER

[ Even under the moon, wolves get tired. Especially when they've gorged themselves on various livestock (sorry, farmland sheep) and chased after any unfortunate souls who came along. Naturally, he isn't the only out here under the influence. Not the only predator by a long shot.

So it's possible to find him under a thicket of trees or half-hidden in a snow-covered cave. The blood and nearby carcass of his recent meal makes it easy to sniff him out, regardless of if you're searching deliberately or just curiously investigating. Whether you're bigger, hungrier or just looking to harass something for the hell of it, his guard's down just enough while he rests that it's possible to catch him by surprise. Feel free to take a bite or pull on his tail. ]

C. WILDCARD

[ geralt will be essentially hunting through the woods and will occasionally wander just a bit closer to the edge of the city, so encountering him while you're questing, on your way to visit a friend, or anything is entirely possible. fight him, run from him, try to talk him down, steal his food, it's all good! if you've encountered him before in human form, it's also possible to recognize him by his medallion. i'm also good with more specific scenarios; just message me and we can work something out. ]

Edited 2020-08-05 17:06 (UTC)

(( EDGE OF THE WILDE; 08/03; late night ))
[ Further into the night, the moon's hold hasn't let up, but he's starting to tire. He's also drifting closer to the city, close enough the deep grip of winter has eased up into rain and the city lights are bright against the horizon. Hard to say what drew him at first, but what keeps him going is a familiar scent and an even more familiar voice: a quiet hum, singing a tune that even now, he thinks he knows.

Geralt steps forward. His hunger isn't yet sated. But the man before him isn't entirely a stranger. His shining yellow gaze lands on his new target. Only a hint of recognition lingers. It's there, though. It makes him pause where he might not have hesitated to strike. He pauses and just stares, as if he's not sure what he should do. For the first time, he's uncertain about his new prey.

There are open cuts and a couple of deeper wounds on him from his encounters earlier in the night, his fur soaked in lake water. The injuries don't seem to bother him as much as they should. More blood stains his muzzle and his fur, blood that isn't his. It clings to his medallion, catching in the moonlight. ]

Edited 2020-08-05 23:01 (UTC)

[ The sound of something approaching the water perks her interest, but it's not the sight of the white wolf that makes the merrow stay. Not even the scent of blood thick enough to taste--deer's blood, it seems-- entices her as much as the glint of metal coming from around its neck.

An animal with jewelry? A curious sight that was, and on a different night Alex might approach with the intent to learn more. But on this full moon, with her bond connection on the brink of breaking and a severe lack of magical intake, her consciousness wasn't as strong as it normally would have been. Instinct and feral desire take over, and nothing else matters other than getting what she wants.

Velvet black scales hide her well enough in evening, the glow of the golden scales of her underbelly only showing once she's close enough to the surface to reach out and take a hold of the medallion. With a hard yank, she tries to rip it from the wolf's neck.]

[ closer to the city outskirts is where ice begins to melt and summer takes its high form inside the bright wall of aefenglom— except eren had sworn to never live behind an annoying wall, never again. he takes to the in between, where slums run just a little more scarce and farms begin to grow chilly. where the horizon stretches and his vision gets lost in so much green, now white for the season. it’s enough fairish weather for the fire dragon to take in this area while still feeling disgruntled about it, his body temperature high enough to maintain his energy and enough of a charge in his tattoos to keep him warm when his scaly hide failed.

he had smelled blood and the hot remains of deer, and aefenglom’s summer made him far hungrier than the wilde’s winter. he feasts himself, on a charred bull’s head that had tasted stale and boring. what had stalked the outer ring of wilde at least hadn’t been so much— not as much magic that his taste would be piqued, but enough of it to flick his ears and tongue to the sound of crunching snow and lupine snarls, equally dissatisfied.

the dragon, the size of a pure blood horse, guards his catch with sinking blue talons into splitting flesh and ashen black antlers snapped to hinges. the rest of the body was what filled his belly, a leg thrown this way or that to stain grass and sleet. eren only watches the guest that comes, and with a clouded mind, tests the turnskin: he growls low and constant, but does not warn him to keep his distance. instead, the head is dragged outward, sideways, and eye contact is kept.

the last time he had been allowed a fight worthy of his energy, it was on litha, with a witch. despite how wet his gums were, thick with the ooze of blood, fur and grime and exposed on both sides of a cheekless maw— he felt thirsty. the pitch black wyvern with rippling sunset colored scales itches for an outlet to pour his anxiety, his rage and his hidden desperation, and on the night of the sisters at their fullest . . . he doesn’t mind tossing the opportunity to the first one willing.

it wasn’t as if he cared so much about himself to have a shred of preservation, much less as a beast, bonded or not. ]

[Karin's own shift under the full moon had turned her into a much-altered version of herself, with wild feathers throughout her hair and down her back, spreading to the newly-emerged wings that aren't yet strong enough to bear her weight in flight. Fortunately, her newly acquired talons are enough to help her sate the urge to get higher up into the trees, using them to cling to and move between the boughs as she allows herself to explore the wilde with a new perspective, just this side of feral, but sharp eyes seeking out any small movement that might signal the presence of something that might sate her newly arisen appetite.

What catches her attention, instead, is the faint trail of blood that stains the snow, steadily growing darker, heavier. Curious, and perhaps against her better judgement, she drops down from the trees to land in a low crouch, wings spread behind her as she does so, and she bends down to touch the trail with what's left of her fingers, testing to see how fresh it might be.

It's only then that she glances up and spots the wolf and his meal not far off— certainly close enough that she's sure she must have gotten his attention, whether she wants it or not. The medallion around his neck, at least, is proof that he's no ordinary wolf— he's more like her, she reasons, though his transformation is more advanced.

Having functioning wings, she thinks, would be quite helpful right now. Instead, she fixes her eyes on him and holds up one hand, taloned fingers spread, as if to show that she means no harm. If he, too, is a Monster, it seems only right to try and communicate?

Otherwise, perhaps she should prepare to run.]

[ The twin moons, heavy and pregnant, light his path home as he returns from a late-night shift at the store. While Aefenglom at large is more than accustomed to the monstrosities sired by the waxed Sisters, this is one of the few times Stiles has been out in public during his full moon shift. Accordingly, discomfort encourages him to stick to the shadows as he walks slowly back to the Haven. For once, he doesn’t bother to utilize the enchanted tattoo inked along his spine to transmute the Arachne limbs smaller as he normally would. All eight stretch out to impressive length, tarsi clicking quietly across the ground and walls of buildings he passes, clinging to anything within grasp.

One of the bright red eyes centered on the back of his hand sights the silhouette of a wolf before the three pairs on his face do. There’s a moment, stupid with homesickness, where he thinks, Derek? It’s a vain hope; not only has Derek been gone from Aefenglom for months now, the former werewolf shifter was also a Witch here. And yet Stiles can’t help but allow curiosity to guide him on a detour to investigate. Instead of continuing onward to the cottage, he heads closer to the Bright Wall where he saw the animal’s shape slip between buildings – toward the Wilde. Chewing on his bottom lip nervously with a fang, he follows.

When he finally manages to catch up to the wolf, disappointment settles hard in his stomach at the white, not black, fur. ]

Well, shit, [ he muses aloud, voice carrying in the dead silence of the night. ] You’re not my guy, buddy.

[ With the surface of the water calm, broken sheets of ice over it, Geralt doesn't give it much thought when he approaches for a drink. The moons shimmer in the surface.

There's something almost human enough in him that he dips his blood-stained paws into the water to wash them clean. Or attempt to, anyway. The water swirls pink, light ripples distracting him from what else is lurking underneath. By the time he senses something off, a hand has already gripped the medallion around his neck. Between the snow and the slippery ice, and the fact that he's got one foot in the water already, the force is more than enough to send him tumbling into the lake.

The fuck. Despite his thick fur, the chill of the water is still sharp. His teeth snap, and he swipes instinctively at whatever has snatched at him. ]

[As a frequent visitor to the Coven, both with a bevy of invasive questions on the nature of magic and the desire to learn more of it, it would be impossible for Jaskier to have missed the warnings about the rise of the Sisters. Full moons and all that. But, look. His world is at constant threat of monsters. Literally stepping outside a town or, fuck, existing inside of it, could yield you another victim of a particularly hungry pack of ghouls.

Essentially, shit happens.

So Jaskier hears the warning but does not take any particular cautions. He's an expert at knowing exactly when to run, and besides... he did go around to Geralt's apartment first to spy on whether he could coerce the man into a little excursion in the Cwyld. Of course, and not to his surprise, Geralt's place was empty. Which could mean a variety of things, but considering what he'd seen outside his window only a little while ago... ugh. He was probably with the sorceress. Again.

At least their apparent tiff had not lasted long. Jaskier would agree, given the question, that sex was a lovely way to fix things.

And because he could not rely on either one of them (and he certainly would ask the sorceress for no favors), Jaskier gathers his bag and a pair of shears and goes off on his own. It's hardly his first time in the woods alone, and he easily fills the quiet of the night under two full moons with song, moving from strings of Her Sweet Kiss to new lines of a ballad he intends to name Mirrorbound. (It's a rather interesting title, all right?)

It is not by sense that he catches himself being watched. It's pure coincidence. In the effort of swinging his arm with the tune of his music, he accidentally lets loose of the shears, which going flying and land with a soft thump. With a curse, Jaskier pokes around in the grass to find it, leaves crunching under the effort.

He only barely catches the reflection of eyes staring at him as he stands back up. Perhaps a gift granted by the superior light of the moons. As the beast steps closer, the white of its fur catches the light as well.]

Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me. [It slips out, a sharp curse when compared to how sweet his song had been. Jaskier freezes, the shears held by a hand with knuckles quickly growing white until they simply fall back into the grass, his hands jerking down. His heart spikes back up into his throat.

Jaskier has been sure Destiny is watching out for him, if he believes in the thing, if only because his life tends to work out in, while not the best way, often relatively well. But this was a swift kick in the ass with a loogie of spit right between his eyes. A white wolf. A gigantic white wolf. The godsforsaken fucking irony. Jaskier stands straight, slowly, swallowing heavily with a mouth gone dry.]

Look. There's plenty of s-shit to eat. Out. Out there. Away. Awaaay. [His voice was soft, or at least attempting to be around his chattering teeth. Geralt, where the fuck are you?] Away from here. You -- you -- I'm a very powerful witch, and I won't hesitate --

[He hesitates when the light catches a bright, unmistakable shine of metal at the wolf's throat (and a fucking miracle he sees it at that, when he could only so far see all the blood on its snout). A shine as familiar to him as, perhaps, one of the rings he'd received from his oldest lovers. Something he'd seen more days of his life than he hadn't. A wolf wearing a wolf medallion. No longer silver, of course. Of course.

Silver is for monsters.]

Geralt? You had bloody not -- why are you --

[Ah, fuck.]

Edited 2020-08-07 04:04 (UTC)

[ It's more than a familiar voice. It's the only reason Geralt hasn't attacked yet. He sniffs, curious: the scent of linseed oil and not just any horse, but one he knows well. Everything about what he's sensing makes him hesitate. In the snow, he'd been better hidden but closer to the city, his thick white fur stands out amongst the tall green grass.

Not until Jaskier spots him does he smell something else: fear. He glimpses something else, too, a shine of sharp metal in the grass, vision cutting through the darkness easily. Predatory and survival instincts kick in, in equal measure. His ears bend back in the only warning he gives.

Geralt pounces. The sound of his name startles him for a split second. It's one he's heard hundreds of times, in a dozen different ways, over so many fucking years. It makes him slower to bite. He almost doesn't, in fact, pausing with something almost too human in eyes that have grown more animal than they usually even are.

The wolf's influence seeps through too thoroughly, though. He bites, teeth snapping at Jaskier's throat and shoulder—trying to sink into flesh that he can tear. ]

Edited 2020-08-07 04:46 (UTC)

[ Where the snow ends, Geralt is vaguely aware that that's the end of what he's already instinctively deemed his territory. So he mostly stays within it, even as he edges towards where the snow grows less thick, coating the ground thinly. The grass beneath his paws can be seen beneath the prints he leaves behind, the treetops greener.

So when the smell of charred flesh comes his way, he takes notice. Fire shouldn't be nearby in the snow. His steps are cautious, but the drive to feast and roam unbothered in the area he's carved out for himself is strong: if there's something else here, he's intent on chasing it off.

Even if happens to be a fucking dragon.

Geralt stares at the creature. Even to him, dragons are rare. Its scales shimmer under the moonlight. His gaze goes from the dragon to the carcass, and then back again. He growls right back. From him, it is a warning, one he pushes further by coming closer. He doesn't run, but it's a steady walk now, no longer cautious as he tests exactly how determined the dragon is to stand its ground. ]

[Hard to say whether the time spent with Geralt allows him to know exactly when he has made the decision to attack -- or the time he's spent watching him kill beasts and monsters. Somehow more horrifying than watching the wolf stalk closer is the realization that this is his friend (the allergy to silver, his going north, that dragon's warnings, how did he ignore all of it?) and, for the moment before he pounces, Jaskier sees no trace of him in his eyes.

Yellow eyes. Some things don't change.

Jaskier screams, or at least manages half of one before the weight of Geralt slamming into him shoves the rest of his breath out of his lungs. They fall to the ground together, the beast on top of him. Instinct manages to raise his arms in the split-second he has to protect his head before the teeth close into his shoulder. He finds the breath in a gasp to scream again when teeth close around it, snapping easily through his entire forearm. Blood gushes, splashing hot onto his own face hidden under his arm.]

Geralt! [His voice goes shrill in the scream; a bloodcurdling fear echoed in it that he knows Geralt has only heard once or twice, even in their travels.] Stop! Stop!

[ The moment blood hits the air, he thinks of nothing else. It soaks the ground, his fur, the taste of it heavy and right at home on his tongue. He ignores the noises and pins his prey down with one large paw.

The second time Jaskier cries his name, he lets go. It's abrupt, as if he isn't sure why he's doing it. The moment he does, a cloud of thick smoke goes off in his eyes: a spell, one that blinds him for a few vital seconds and stings his nose.

He stumbles back, a low growl in his throat. It's a distraction, but it's also one that pisses him off, an attack he retaliates against as soon as he can. If any part of him recognizes Jaskier, it's buried deep beneath the beast.

He goes in for another bite, aiming for the same arm. It's wounded and he knows if he catches it, with enough force he can yank it clean off. ]

[He's not put much thought into how he'd die, but getting eaten by his witcher was not one of the options.

The throb of his arm is excrutiating, a white-hot pain that nearly blinds him -- or that's the blood that's covering his face, stinging his eyes. He doesn't know why the fuck Geralt hesitates (all it would take is those teeth around his throat and half a second) but it gives him just enough time. Magic lights to his finger, but under the weakness granted by the full moon, it's only half as powerful as he wants it to be. Desperation calls for it. Jaskier yells.] Dhu deith!

[Smoke explodes from his hands, bursting into both of their faces. He hacks and coughs, crawling backwards with one arm as he cradles the torn one against his chest. Blood quickly soaks through his unbuttoned doublet, and the warm stickiness of it smearing his chest is sickeningly familiar.

He grabs blindly through the grass. Silver. He -- fuck, he doesn't have a choice, Geralt's gone --

Jaskier catches the handle of the small silver shears just as Geralt leaps for him again. He swings blindly in a wide arc, shouting as Geralt's teeth barely miss grabbing his arm. The wolf snarls, the smell of burnt fur invading the air from the shears cutting open his side.

The point where he would've yelled Geralt's name to protect him (he always has, even without Jaskier asking) long passed. As he scrambles backwards, he shouts.] Get away from me, Geralt! Fuck off!

Edited 2020-08-07 06:32 (UTC)

[ Where Jaskier might not have heeded warnings about the rise of the Sisters, Yennefer had listened. Until she'd lost track of time on her latest exploration. And that had set her on the path of one of Geralt's victims, the description of the medallion around the wolf's neck all she needs to hear to know who was responsible.

Tracking him wasn't hard, following the blood and entrails. By the time she hears a voice, the recognition clicks and she can't help but swear under her breath and take off at a run towards the fight.

The wolf that was in front of Jaskier suddenly teleports 100ft backwards, giving Yennefer a chance to move in and step in front of the bard. She extends a hand towards the wolf, hoping her scent and the sound of her voice might break through in a way Jaskier's couldn't. If Geralt starts to charge, she'll teleport him again. ]

Geralt. Enough! [ Splitting her attention, she casts a cursory glance at Jaskier. ] We need to knock him out so I don't have to kill him. Help me or run and get someone who can.

[ Teeth and claws scratching at him had been easy to shrug off. The swipe of silver is different. A sharp burn flares across his flank. Geralt stumbles back. Blood spills from the open cut, staining more of his white fur red.

He's about to lunge again, and he does -- only his target is suddenly empty air. He lands on only grass, twisting around. What the fuck. The scent distracts him as much as being teleported does. His teeth are bared, but he pauses in front of her. Stares at her extended hand. Unlike Jaskier, there's no fear coming from her to push his instincts and for a moment, it almost seems as if he's considering her gesture.

Then she glances back and he's reminded of what's there behind her: an unfinished hunt. If she had caught him earlier in the night -- if either of them had -- it might've been possible to get through to him. But he's spent the past several hours tearing through whatever's crossed his path. The taste of blood is thick in his mouth and now it hangs in the air, fresh. He's never allowed a hunt to be interrupted and he's not about to start now.

He charges again. There's a slight swerve in his path that suggests he's trying to go around her rather than through her, but before he gets anywhere, he's sent across the clearing. As he reorients, it's obvious the silver shears have left their mark. He's not so steady anymore, his gait uneven. ]

[ The sound of softly crunching snow behind him makes him lift his head. His ears are perked up, alert. The oddness of what he's seeing makes him pause: not quite human, not quite beast. He can't tell if she's another predator landing in his territory or something else he can eat. (Never mind that he's already in the middle of feasting.)

It's for that reason that for a good half a minute, he simply watches her. His head tilts when she waves at him, a gesture that some part of him recognizes as much too human but can't fully process at the moment. Is it threatening? For the first time tonight, he's a bit confused. Everything else he's run into has either attacked him or run from him.

After a time, he takes several steps foward and leaves his meal unattended, testing her presence here: if she'll retreat or stand her ground or try to steal his food. The smallest indication she plans on confronting him will make him lunge and if she full on flees, he'll take it as a sign to give chase. ]

[ In the soft snow, the skittering of limbs is harder to hear. Caught up in his instincts, Geralt is too honed in on his newest trail -- what smells like a deer -- to notice that he's being trailed from afar. Not until Stiles catches up to him does he lift his head and pause.

There's a long moment where he simply looks, as if he's unsure of what he's facing. It has too many legs to be his usual meal. Definitely far too many fucking eyes. If he had his human senses, he'd realize what monster this was, but as it is, for a split second, the wolf thinks it's looking at more than one creature stacked together with that many limbs and red eyes blinking back in the moonlit darkness.

When Stiles speaks, his ears draw back. It's large and it looks like it might be encroaching on his territory. (He's been in these woods not very long, but a part of him has already claimed it as his.) He gives a warning growl and steps forward. His intent is clear: if the other creature doesn't back off, he's going to pounce. ]

[Geralt did not, in fact, fuck off, and for a horrible moment Jaskier was afraid the silver in the shears may have poisoned him -- or worse yet, that he'd have to hurt his friend more just to survive the night. The word feral cuts through his head again, and while that was helpful knowledge at the time, no one had really told him a damn thing to make a feral wolf stop --

If he wasn't already on the fucking ground, he would've fallen over again. Yennefer appears from the darkness as quickly as Geralt did, standing in front of him. Time to be shocked at the idea the sorceress would very much lift a finger for him would be had later. The horrible truth was he could see that even his wicked love was not making Geralt stop.

Jaskier scrambles to his feet and moves up beside her, the shears still in his hand, now covered in wolf blood. Find someone else. The fucking audacity --] I know a sleep spell! Just -- just fucking help me with it!

[Not that he has a clue on how to do that, but she's the magic expert here. He can only thank past Jaskier for being the sort of shit idiot who thought a sleep spell would be helpful. He focuses in the only way he knows how at the moment: through song. Except the way he sings now, it's not beautiful, but messy, a desperate string of words as he puts aside the pain of his arm.] Dhu deien me treise, dearme!

[ Of course she has the fucking audacity, the memory of him yelling for Geralt when hunting the dragon after cooing at a hirikka that was hiding in the bushes. He surprises her, though, pushing through the pain to do something.

Maybe he was more than just an annoying bard. Focusing on Geralt and ready to break the chanting to teleport him again, her hands flex. ]

Dhu deien me treise, dearme...

[ The words are repeated, somewhat following his rhythm but she is absolutely not singing it. She puts more force behind them, continuing to chant and watch the wolf. They can talk about his specific choice of words later. ]

[ Normally, spells of this kind don't affect him. But wrapped up in the pure instincts of an animal, he has no defenses of any sort in his mind. Between the two of them, it's easily taken over.

In fact, it doesn't even occur to him there's a spell going on: he pursues his prey with a singular focus, running at Jaskier without hesitation, even as he's beginning to limp just a little. His steps slow, and then he stumbles, though he still manages to get both paws on Jaskier's chest to pin him down. His breaths come hot and heavy, blood staining his teeth.

His vision blurs. At first, he thinks it's blood in his eyes. A sluggishness overtakes him, one that leaves him swaying on his feet. Then he simply collapses where he stands. ]

[Jaskier doesn't know where he finds the strength to keep singing the words as the wolf charges at him. He does know he about runs out of it around the time Geralt stumbles, the glow of his eyes no longer alert. Jaskier hollers as the gigantic wolf rams straight into him, bowling both of them over. It's pure luck that Geralt's weight doesn't land on his arm, and he has a split second to roll before the entire wolf falls on top of him.

He looks over to see Geralt's eyes closed. Jaskier rolls onto his side, fighting the distinct urge to vomit or, more likely, pass out himself. The pain is excrutiating. It's hard to think past it.

But he does. He gets to his knees using his good arm. He spits, cursing.] Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking shit.

[Ah. He was saying that out loud.] I don't know where the fuck you came from, but -- [He groans. Even just shifting his arm feels like he might very well be dying. He can't even spare a look at it. He knows it's shredded and wet and hot and the most terrifying thing in his life would be to look down and see bone peeking up through his torn skin.] Thanks. Is he -- is he all right? Am I? Oh. I think I'm dying, actually. Not exaggerating.

[ She keeps chanting as Geralt charges, not sure if she'd be able to shift gears quickly enough to teleport him far enough away for safety. If Jaskier had froze, she'd have had no other choice. But, as he slows down, she continues -- hoping he'll collapse before he gets to them.

She'd thought Jaskier would sidestep, but that was not the case. Once this was all done, she'd need to have a discussion with both of them about what if any combat training Geralt has given the Bard. Even just self-defense and evasion.

Once Geralt is on the ground and Jaskier isn't pinned, he's rambling and she's fairly certain he might be going into shock. Taking hold of his chin surprisingly gently, she draws his gaze to hers. ]

Look at me. You're not dying, bard. You wouldn't be speaking like this if you were truly on the brink. We need to wait until he reverts back to his regular form to move. I have bandages at my cottage.

[ Letting go of his chin, her attention shifts to his arm -- assessing and carefully touching the wound. Seeing how deep it is, if it's something that can wait or needs to be addressed now. ]

[Shock. Yes, shock sounds about right. Shock is the thing that only makes him blink when she catches his chin instead of jerk away in fear. (Their last meeting alone had not been terribly cheerful, and he remembers the threat of a knife between his legs. Some things a man doesn't forget.)

How odd, he thinks dimly. It's the softest he's ever heard Yennefer's voice go.]

Bandages... [He doesn't ask. Fuck, he's about three seconds from crying or going unconscious. With his good arm, he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. So they stay here? Until -- when? Dawn?

There's a thousand questions, but now that his adrenaline is fading he's so terribly exhausted that he can't think to ask them. He holds his arm out for her, looking to the side. He's seen it, the meat of his arm now bare, a shade of bone underneath, looking all like a drumstick after a drunkard's been after it.] I haven't gotten to healing yet. Can you -- I don't know, could you stop the bleeding? I have to check on Geralt.

[Gathering these forget-me-nots was proving to be more of a Task than Lightning had imagined it would be. Between the snow and the thorny bushes, she's been out here for what feels like days. She's come dressed for the weather, but she's still cold, shivering slightly as she finishes up, tossing one more seed into her satchel before deciding to call it satisfactory. Returning with three or four doesn't feel sufficient or worth it enough, especially for all the trouble she's had to endure thus far, and that's taking into account the number of seeds she's lost on this particular run because of it, but she's had more than enough of this for now. It's time to return to Dorchacht, and they'll have to settle for what she can hand over.

They say the Wilde is dangerous, but her footsteps crunch heavily in the snow as she journeys back, because the last thing she is expecting to see on her way is a wolf directly in her path, feasting on a bloody carcass.

Well, shit.

She stops, stares, and hopes that it hasn't noticed her while she tries to figure out a way around it.]

[ To say that Zack hadn't been prepared enough for the effects of the full moon would be an understatement. He had taken a temporary bonding potion, following Cloud's advice, but it hadn't been enough. Not when he's been quick to jump at the offer of traveling past Aefenglom's walls over the past month, wanting to stretch his legs and see more of this world. Which is all well and good, except it makes the moon's influence far stronger than it had been in previous months, drawing out opposing forces that now exist deep inside him, which have gone ignored until now.

The shift he experiences isn't anything as severe as Geralt's, but there's still plenty that's changed in a short, excruciating amount of time. Feathers that have grown down his neck, arms and back; wings that have exploded from his shoulder blades in a spray of blood; fingers that have hardened and sharpened into talons; and a dark lion's tail at his back. His eyes which are usually a bright, glowing blue now gleam with gold instead.

It's the mental changes that are ultimately worse, though, and which drive him from the city into the woods with an overwhelming need to stalk and take down prey. Both of the creatures that are now a part of him are predators, and it's the smell of a fresh kill that brings Zack into Geralt's periphery.

His sharp vision, even in the dark, allows him to spot the white wolf from a distance away. Zack remains bipedal, at least for now, as he stalks through the trees, following the sweet scent of newly-spilled blood.

In a split second the wolf changes gears, racing toward him at breakneck speed. Instinct takes over and for the first time Zack flaps those wings, giving him just enough height to avoid the singleminded charge of the wolf. Barely aware of how to control himself in the air, however, he crushes against a tree branch and falls back to the forest floor, letting out a warning snarl.

It's unlikely that this won't end with further bloodshed, but perhaps that's what both of the monsters need in the moment. ]

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( OPEN ) just a pinch of salt in the wound; you'll be fine

♞ open to all

♞ jaskier + yennefer

wild card (let me know if this works!)

a + wildcard kind of!

a with some liberties, let me know if this works!

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wildcarding

a