The crash came just as he was slipping back, the hard, sharp friction of the sound disabusing him of any notions that he would return directly to the waiting arms of nothingness. He was pushed backward at least-- which while not pleasant, left him in a position he could breathe in. So he did draw a few deep lungfuls, each more painful than the last, until he was forced to subside and began breathing shallowly once again. Geralt opened his eyes simply because keeping them closed made the room spin too quickly. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth had nothing to give except the clinging remainders of vomit.
Why hadn't he died instead? He felt fucking terrible.
He tried to lift a hand to the worst of the injuries and found a dressed wound, nails skating along a bandage before he had to rest his arm against his stomach. "Don't tell me," he said, before stopping to breathe. "That you were my physician." The longer he was awake the longer the darkness built shadows around the corner of his eyes. His insides lurched again but he held it down with a will and exhaled slowly though his nose. Injuries-- plenty. But it wasn't blood-loss or even shitty stitches that was making him feel like this. He groped for Jaskier and, finding his doublet, made a fist into the fabric. It was cool and slick under his fingers, a strange, welcome difference to the sweat-thick sheets where he lay.
Now that his blood was helpful being kept inside his body and regenerating to boot, the Witcher was beginning to show signs of the effects the concoctions he'd drank in concert. His veins were darker against his fair skin and the old scars that railroaded his body like a map had gone from white to red. His body-- apparently content that it was strong enough to get into more trouble-- was conveniently trying to parse the toxins from itself.
"White honey," he croaked out before his hand fell, his chest took one more hard gasp of breath, and his eyes closed. Unlike the unconsciousness that had come before, this time his rest seemed more like a sleep... and perhaps not to his benefit. Geralt's temperature rose and he jerked on the mattress as he sweat through it anew.
NEEKID GERALT ICON IS YOUR ACHIEVEMENT ICON. CONGRATULATIONS.
Why hadn't he died instead? He felt fucking terrible.
He tried to lift a hand to the worst of the injuries and found a dressed wound, nails skating along a bandage before he had to rest his arm against his stomach. "Don't tell me," he said, before stopping to breathe. "That you were my physician." The longer he was awake the longer the darkness built shadows around the corner of his eyes. His insides lurched again but he held it down with a will and exhaled slowly though his nose. Injuries-- plenty. But it wasn't blood-loss or even shitty stitches that was making him feel like this. He groped for Jaskier and, finding his doublet, made a fist into the fabric. It was cool and slick under his fingers, a strange, welcome difference to the sweat-thick sheets where he lay.
Now that his blood was helpful being kept inside his body and regenerating to boot, the Witcher was beginning to show signs of the effects the concoctions he'd drank in concert. His veins were darker against his fair skin and the old scars that railroaded his body like a map had gone from white to red. His body-- apparently content that it was strong enough to get into more trouble-- was conveniently trying to parse the toxins from itself.
"White honey," he croaked out before his hand fell, his chest took one more hard gasp of breath, and his eyes closed. Unlike the unconsciousness that had come before, this time his rest seemed more like a sleep... and perhaps not to his benefit. Geralt's temperature rose and he jerked on the mattress as he sweat through it anew.