[Noooo. In these dark days, that seems particularly cruel. Glad it's back! FYI in Witcher canon people think that there's more world past the northern seas but nobody's been there... so I've basically just assumed that Thedas and The Witcher's Continent are parts of a whole and somebody in Thedas was adventurous enough to sail hella far south for slaves. ;)]
Hardship had not bowed Geralt of Rivia.
He stood on the podium looking for all the world as if he might meet any man who challenged him even though he was dirty, poorly-clothed, and the heavy iron on his wrists and ankles was trying its best to pull him toward the floor. He stood like someone who had known nothing but fighting in his life; his weight was on his left foot just so, instinct ready to move him even though he could go nowhere, his broad shoulders low and tense under the sea of eyes that washed upon him and caught. His beard needed more than a trim and his long white hair had been roughly pulled back into a hank at the top of his head. He looked misused and dangerous and while that was probably the point in order to sell him, it was also happened to be true.
If only anyone in Thedas had known what a Witcher was, they would have understood the danger. Instead they looked at him and saw his yellow cat's eyes, his too-pale colors, and his sheer size-- and if that didn't convince them, then there was the collar.
The glowing runes were magic beyond Geralt's understanding and certainly the singular thing that had facilitated the ambush years ago that had gotten him thrown into the low belly of a great ship and brought to Thedas in chains. The alchemy that had made him a Witcher had shifted the base building blocks of his self and was and not something that could be altered once set in its course-- or so he'd always believed. The runes on the collar had proven him a liar and a fool. The magic in the cold, unforgiving iron kept him from focusing himself with enough precision to use Signs and it stifled his sharp senses. It made him sluggish, moderating his unnatural speed, strength, ability to heal.
... In other words the collar had made him acceptably human, by Thedas standards. Manageable. Oh, it hadn't robbed him of his skill but skill was small consolation. In his darker moods, Geralt thought that there were certainly people back on the Continent that would have applauded such standards set to Witchers. He'd been on Thedas' soil for, by his best count, just under five years. It was still like living in darkness.
Melted onto the collar between one set of the softly glowing runes was a silver wolf's head, forever caught in a snarl. It was the only thing from his old life that still remained with him.
"Fifty sovereigns, madame," the huckster purred as a reminder to Ellessa as the crowd began to disperse and he sidled to the edge of the stage. "For the White Wolf. Sovereigns for the keys and title." Behind the man, yellow eyes watched the lady who intended to own him as well as man who had pulled a swift bit of strong-arming to help said lady get what she'd wanted. There was no needing superior senses to have seen that little cheat.
The huckster smiled and showed a gold side tooth, holding out an empty palm.
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Hardship had not bowed Geralt of Rivia.
He stood on the podium looking for all the world as if he might meet any man who challenged him even though he was dirty, poorly-clothed, and the heavy iron on his wrists and ankles was trying its best to pull him toward the floor. He stood like someone who had known nothing but fighting in his life; his weight was on his left foot just so, instinct ready to move him even though he could go nowhere, his broad shoulders low and tense under the sea of eyes that washed upon him and caught. His beard needed more than a trim and his long white hair had been roughly pulled back into a hank at the top of his head. He looked misused and dangerous and while that was probably the point in order to sell him, it was also happened to be true.
If only anyone in Thedas had known what a Witcher was, they would have understood the danger. Instead they looked at him and saw his yellow cat's eyes, his too-pale colors, and his sheer size-- and if that didn't convince them, then there was the collar.
The glowing runes were magic beyond Geralt's understanding and certainly the singular thing that had facilitated the ambush years ago that had gotten him thrown into the low belly of a great ship and brought to Thedas in chains. The alchemy that had made him a Witcher had shifted the base building blocks of his self and was and not something that could be altered once set in its course-- or so he'd always believed. The runes on the collar had proven him a liar and a fool. The magic in the cold, unforgiving iron kept him from focusing himself with enough precision to use Signs and it stifled his sharp senses. It made him sluggish, moderating his unnatural speed, strength, ability to heal.
... In other words the collar had made him acceptably human, by Thedas standards. Manageable. Oh, it hadn't robbed him of his skill but skill was small consolation. In his darker moods, Geralt thought that there were certainly people back on the Continent that would have applauded such standards set to Witchers. He'd been on Thedas' soil for, by his best count, just under five years. It was still like living in darkness.
Melted onto the collar between one set of the softly glowing runes was a silver wolf's head, forever caught in a snarl. It was the only thing from his old life that still remained with him.
"Fifty sovereigns, madame," the huckster purred as a reminder to Ellessa as the crowd began to disperse and he sidled to the edge of the stage. "For the White Wolf. Sovereigns for the keys and title." Behind the man, yellow eyes watched the lady who intended to own him as well as man who had pulled a swift bit of strong-arming to help said lady get what she'd wanted. There was no needing superior senses to have seen that little cheat.
The huckster smiled and showed a gold side tooth, holding out an empty palm.