[ Removing the moths is the main reason why Geralt's here at this farm, but there are two reasons he winds up picking apples against all intentions: 1) a woman with greying hair shoving a sack into his hands and telling him, with no room for argument, that while the moths can be removed any time, the apples must be ready for the festival; and 2) the cunes for said apples are decent.
So here he is. Plucking fruit from a tree. He's careful of the moths, as much as he can be. His susceptibility to illusions here is in question and beyond that, even if he remains unaffected as usual, it doesn't mean he can't see them. It only means that he recognizes them for what they are: smoke and mirrors, not reality. He'd rather not glimpse whatever nightmare vision this land has deemed appropriate. Problem is, he's not alone. The combination of money and danger means those who have come here belong in two categories: folks who know what they're doing and folks who don't give a damn that they don't know what they're doing. It's the latter that catches him sooner or later, a plume of dust that rises from a nearby tree, likely from someone disturbing an unseen nest.
He sighs. Ah, shit.
Geralt starts off to make a quick escape. As if he'll stick around a batch of farmhands for whatever the fuck he might start seeing. He's well aware of what lurks in his mind. But the effects are quicker. He's only a few steps out of the trees when the entire landscape changes: stone walls that rise in various states of ruin. He blinks, stopping short. When he lifts his foot, there's blood sticking, pools of it congealed on the stone floors.
Anyone in the area may or may not glimpse a share of his vision from remnants of the dust -- either dozens of bodies strewn across the scorched ground of the keep in what's clearly a fight they've lost, some who are children; or just one child, a boy no more than thirteen. At first glance, the resemblance isn't entirely clear, but there are streaks of grey and white in the boy's brown hair and his eyes shine with the same gold color. He's throwing up blood on the ground, a sickly smell of herbs and something rotting in the air.
Either way, you'll definitely spot Geralt staring at something. And when he finally forces himself to walk off, he doesn't hesitate to shoulder aside whoever is in his path, too distracted to pay attention. Fucking apples. ]
[ Effectively living in this city means Geralt has an interest in knowing when something changes within it. He's learned it pays to know what's going on in a town. Which is why he's coming by the orphanage once he hears a Mirrorbound has taken over.
Naturally, he's of no intention to work there. The only children he's been around were the boys training at Kaer Morhen, an entirely different circumstance and not an experience that applies. He only means to linger nearby, to see what he might learn.
But what he means to do and what actually ends up happening rarely align. Any Mirrorbound working with the kids can convince him to help: either moving heavy items or chasing down a lost child. Or they might pass by on the street to find him begrudgingly halfway up a nearby tree where a cat has made its home high on the branches, a small group of children surrounding the base of said tree.
(Can't even fucking tell them to find someone else since he'll only scare Lady Bella off, because cats apparently no longer despise him here. It's one more reminder of exactly what's changed. And look, he's --
He doesn't have a good reason why he's ended up here. He's just going to pretend it never happened.) ]
(( Geralt can be easily found in various taverns in the city, as well as in the woods and close to the Wilde, usually with his horse. Feel free to bump into him. ))
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