[ Sleipnir is not immune to a touch of impatience in these matters. Postpone his healing? And in private — why? He very nearly rolls his eyes. It comes out as a slightly impatient flutter of his lashes as his gaze flicks idly from the chirurgeon's staff to his own hand gripping his arm white to staunch the bleeding.
Still, he supposes, if this is not some paltry parlor act of Geralt's, he does at least see the merit in analyzing the wounds left by the beast to determine what it might be, or where it may have gone. He heaves a sigh, waving his hand as if to affect a sense of noble indifference. ]
...Leave me be, Harlan. Let him earn his coin.
[ "But, my lord —" ]
It is nothing I have not previously sustained.
[ The healer grumbles, but he relents after a moment, ceasing his work to take two paces away from Sleipnir's body. Then, seeming to recall that Geralt requested privacy, he turns on his heel. "I will be outside," the man says stiffly. "With the others," he adds after a pause, as if to threaten that he and the maidservants will burst in if they detect any hint of misbehavior.
Sleipnir waves his hand again impatiently, and then the man is gone.
There is — perhaps something of a story to be told here, in the way that Sleipnir seems very much the sort of arrogant lordling who has always been spoiled and doted upon and expected to produce nothing, and yet curiously knows Harlan by his name, and has affected that much loyalty from him and the other servants of their House. Ishgardian loyalties are often bought, yes, but to that degree...?
Regardless, it isn't the story that he needs to linger on in the moment.
The knight's gaze swivels back to Geralt's face as he, unprompted, loosens the collar of his shirt and pulls it apart for the "mercenary" to take a better look. Claw marks and blood; red lines through porcelain skin. No mottled blue or purple or green would suggest immediate signs of a toxin, but then Geralt would, ostensibly, have a better view of these things. ]
[ Geralt watches them, the way they interact: for all Sleipnir's theatrical mask of a lordling with a penchant for acrid mockery, he doesn't speak to the healer like one — and the healer, in turn, doesn't act like a man who's tired of petulance and mercurial demands.
That was all for him, then; a show, or a test, or plain old veiled hostility. Delightful. Great.
Geralt kneels beside him, not shy about leaving any polite space, and scrutinizes a red gash, bright eyes narrowed. There's obvious muscle tone with the shirt out of the way, as slender as Sleipnir's build is; combined with the offhand comment about injuries, it's likely he was an active knight for a time. Misses it, maybe, by his little challenge earlier. (No expensive scents, Geralt notes: vain in some ways, but markedly not in others.) ]
No venom.
[ He leans closer. His fingers, warm and callused, part the shallow cut just enough to examine the edges: unnaturally smooth. Not too deep, either, which is striking.
Geralt raises his eyes, straightening one one knee, and lifts his hand. ]
But there are traces of magic. Doesn't seem to be interfering with the healing, but it might have other effects.
[ He tips his chin at the door. ]
You obviously trust your healer. If you trust him enough not to repeat conversations, call him back in. He can finish while I tell you why I think you're dealing with a wraith.
[ Sleipnir sighs, scrunching his face up in a manner most unbecoming of the theatrical mask he was wearing before. A wraith. Excellent. Admittedly, Sleipnir has no knowledge of what one is, and has never had to see one, in a land normally besieged by dragons more so than ghouls. But it doesn't sound good, anyway. There is a side of him that vaguely wishes this could be Barnabas's problem instead.
The furrows between his brow soon return to their usual pristine neutrality. As Sleipnir opens his blue eyes, he lifts his voice just slightly, calling the conjurer back in: ]
Harlan, if you would?
[ The middle-aged Hyuran gentleman from earlier rushes back into the room with a bit of a frazzled fluttering of his robes, casting a curious glance between his lord and the newly hired mercenary before returning to the wounds he was attempting to treat.
Seemingly unbothered by either the healer's or the witcher's attentions, Sleipnir casts a lazy glance back towards Geralt, sighing. ]
Well, then. Describe to me the manner of beast we are facing.
[ Definitely a former knight, Geralt decides. He has his household's genuine respect.
He gets to his feet, pacing a little, gesturing as he explains. ]
Wraith — a type of ghost, but ghosts aren't necessarily harmful. Wraiths are, and they don't stop. Something anchors their souls here, a negative emotion — hatred, rage. Envy.
[ He turns back to the young lord, crouching on the balls of his feet in front of him, ignoring the healer as he works. ]
They can be dispelled, but only temporarily. Key to driving it away for good will be figuring out what binds it here and destroying that binding. Could be an object; could be something as abstract as an oath.
[ His eyes narrow a fraction, searching Sleipnir's hard. ]
Have to ask: how did you get away? Don't need to tell you that the rest of its victims so far were killed.
[ The question seems to take Sleipnir by surprise. It would be difficult to tell if Geralt were not keenly observant, but the young noble reacts with extremely, extremely mild consternation, and a slight curl of his fingers. The issue isn't deep; it's just that he's been asking himself the same question, and it chafes him to not have something witty to say in response. ]
I don't know.
[ He says this flatly, with no real intonation or sentiment behind the words. The amusement laid bare, for once. ]
It would be very amusing to say that it fled after I struck it. I did — once, and then a second time. But, nor being possessed of a corporeal form, the beast was unperturbed. I daresay it was rather unimpressed by my steel.
[ A wraith... a creature with some manner of grudge? Towards who, or what? House Harbard? Something else? ]
I can find no sense in it. [ Was there a specific thing that he did? He frowns as Harlan mends the broken skin over his chest; his eyes settle on the gleam in Geralt's catlike eyes. The young man looks younger with an almost-childish pout on his lips. ] I recall I shifted my sword stance. Perhaps that was it?
Somehow, I don't think a different stance would've changed much.
[ But he isn't lying, pretty clearly — which presents a new and maybe important twist. Geralt gets to his feet, pacing away, arms crossed. ]
Wraith like this wouldn't have been dissuaded by an audience, either — you would've just ended up with more bodies. Probably lucky for your house that nobody interrupted.
[ He pauses, jogging his leg in thought, staring at the wall, and pivots back to them. ]
Your death isn't its objective — but your torment might be. Any major decisions, lately? Call off any engagements, otherwise make any enemies? Lose any servants to... [ He makes a delicate motion, eyes sharp on Sleipnir's face. ] Unusual circumstances? Need to know the truth about all of this, or I can't help you. Keep in mind: could be about your older brother, too.
[ Sleipnir pauses. His steely blue eyes have turned distant, sifting through memories he thought long since forgotten and pushed to the wayside; it is plain to see, despite some attempt to remain casual and disconcerted, that Geralt's suggestions have found some mark. He is thinking of something, and something specific.
At length, when the conjurer has healed the young lord's wounds to a ruddy pink, Sleipnir lifts his hand in final dismissal. ]
Harlan, I have had enough. That will be all.
[ The requisite loyal servant's protestations must come forthwith. "But, milord —" ]
Please.
[ Sleipnir's tone is different then — again, no longer sly and teasing, but genuine and serious and solemn. Again, the House servants seem to know more about their lord than Geralt does; after a hefty pause, Harlan sighs, stands, and excuses himself, this time without the pointed judgment in Geralt's direction.
Once the door has closed behind the healer, Sleipnir begins again, though he doesn't, himself, rise from his bed. ]
Master Geralt. For the sake of your investigation, I will be frank with you, but — to use a very clichéd and hackneyed line, indeed an unrivaled classic —
[ As he speaks, he beckons the witcher closer. If he is humored, he leans close enough to Geralt's lips to taste his breath, and whispers: ]
— you are not to breathe a word of this to anyone else.
[ It's an imperious gesture, but Geralt expects no pleases or I pray yous or if you woulds from the second son of a house this steeped in wealth. He steps close to the side of the bed, plants a hand on one of the carved-wood columns, and leans down, at least outwardly willing to indulge.
Then Sleipnir moves in, more brazen and presumptuous than he's been yet. He could have tilted his chin up, beckoned again for the usual conspicuous whisper in the ear — but he chose to let his breath hit Geralt's rough jaw, instead, a teasing taste of intimacy. He's aware of how pretty he is, patently, and how to use it. On someone less experienced, less used to this particular kind of bullshit, it might have even worked.
Geralt tilts his head mildly toward him, meeting his eyes and calling his bluff in the same motion. Now their lips could brush with an accidental shift, an adjustment of Geralt's footing or Sleipnir's position against his pillows. Geralt keeps very still, eyes flatly calm and sharp. ]
Wouldn't get much work if I had a reputation for talking after jobs like this.
[ He tips his chin, a prompt that briefly changes the air in the scant distance between them. ]
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no subject
Still, he supposes, if this is not some paltry parlor act of Geralt's, he does at least see the merit in analyzing the wounds left by the beast to determine what it might be, or where it may have gone. He heaves a sigh, waving his hand as if to affect a sense of noble indifference. ]
...Leave me be, Harlan. Let him earn his coin.
[ "But, my lord —" ]
It is nothing I have not previously sustained.
[ The healer grumbles, but he relents after a moment, ceasing his work to take two paces away from Sleipnir's body. Then, seeming to recall that Geralt requested privacy, he turns on his heel. "I will be outside," the man says stiffly. "With the others," he adds after a pause, as if to threaten that he and the maidservants will burst in if they detect any hint of misbehavior.
Sleipnir waves his hand again impatiently, and then the man is gone.
There is — perhaps something of a story to be told here, in the way that Sleipnir seems very much the sort of arrogant lordling who has always been spoiled and doted upon and expected to produce nothing, and yet curiously knows Harlan by his name, and has affected that much loyalty from him and the other servants of their House. Ishgardian loyalties are often bought, yes, but to that degree...?
Regardless, it isn't the story that he needs to linger on in the moment.
The knight's gaze swivels back to Geralt's face as he, unprompted, loosens the collar of his shirt and pulls it apart for the "mercenary" to take a better look. Claw marks and blood; red lines through porcelain skin. No mottled blue or purple or green would suggest immediate signs of a toxin, but then Geralt would, ostensibly, have a better view of these things. ]
Well? Your verdict?
no subject
That was all for him, then; a show, or a test, or plain old veiled hostility. Delightful. Great.
Geralt kneels beside him, not shy about leaving any polite space, and scrutinizes a red gash, bright eyes narrowed. There's obvious muscle tone with the shirt out of the way, as slender as Sleipnir's build is; combined with the offhand comment about injuries, it's likely he was an active knight for a time. Misses it, maybe, by his little challenge earlier. (No expensive scents, Geralt notes: vain in some ways, but markedly not in others.) ]
No venom.
[ He leans closer. His fingers, warm and callused, part the shallow cut just enough to examine the edges: unnaturally smooth. Not too deep, either, which is striking.
Geralt raises his eyes, straightening one one knee, and lifts his hand. ]
But there are traces of magic. Doesn't seem to be interfering with the healing, but it might have other effects.
[ He tips his chin at the door. ]
You obviously trust your healer. If you trust him enough not to repeat conversations, call him back in. He can finish while I tell you why I think you're dealing with a wraith.
no subject
The furrows between his brow soon return to their usual pristine neutrality. As Sleipnir opens his blue eyes, he lifts his voice just slightly, calling the conjurer back in: ]
Harlan, if you would?
[ The middle-aged Hyuran gentleman from earlier rushes back into the room with a bit of a frazzled fluttering of his robes, casting a curious glance between his lord and the newly hired mercenary before returning to the wounds he was attempting to treat.
Seemingly unbothered by either the healer's or the witcher's attentions, Sleipnir casts a lazy glance back towards Geralt, sighing. ]
Well, then. Describe to me the manner of beast we are facing.
no subject
He gets to his feet, pacing a little, gesturing as he explains. ]
Wraith — a type of ghost, but ghosts aren't necessarily harmful. Wraiths are, and they don't stop. Something anchors their souls here, a negative emotion — hatred, rage. Envy.
[ He turns back to the young lord, crouching on the balls of his feet in front of him, ignoring the healer as he works. ]
They can be dispelled, but only temporarily. Key to driving it away for good will be figuring out what binds it here and destroying that binding. Could be an object; could be something as abstract as an oath.
[ His eyes narrow a fraction, searching Sleipnir's hard. ]
Have to ask: how did you get away? Don't need to tell you that the rest of its victims so far were killed.
no subject
I don't know.
[ He says this flatly, with no real intonation or sentiment behind the words. The amusement laid bare, for once. ]
It would be very amusing to say that it fled after I struck it. I did — once, and then a second time. But, nor being possessed of a corporeal form, the beast was unperturbed. I daresay it was rather unimpressed by my steel.
[ A wraith... a creature with some manner of grudge? Towards who, or what? House Harbard? Something else? ]
I can find no sense in it. [ Was there a specific thing that he did? He frowns as Harlan mends the broken skin over his chest; his eyes settle on the gleam in Geralt's catlike eyes. The young man looks younger with an almost-childish pout on his lips. ] I recall I shifted my sword stance. Perhaps that was it?
no subject
Somehow, I don't think a different stance would've changed much.
[ But he isn't lying, pretty clearly — which presents a new and maybe important twist. Geralt gets to his feet, pacing away, arms crossed. ]
Wraith like this wouldn't have been dissuaded by an audience, either — you would've just ended up with more bodies. Probably lucky for your house that nobody interrupted.
[ He pauses, jogging his leg in thought, staring at the wall, and pivots back to them. ]
Your death isn't its objective — but your torment might be. Any major decisions, lately? Call off any engagements, otherwise make any enemies? Lose any servants to... [ He makes a delicate motion, eyes sharp on Sleipnir's face. ] Unusual circumstances? Need to know the truth about all of this, or I can't help you. Keep in mind: could be about your older brother, too.
no subject
At length, when the conjurer has healed the young lord's wounds to a ruddy pink, Sleipnir lifts his hand in final dismissal. ]
Harlan, I have had enough. That will be all.
[ The requisite loyal servant's protestations must come forthwith. "But, milord —" ]
Please.
[ Sleipnir's tone is different then — again, no longer sly and teasing, but genuine and serious and solemn. Again, the House servants seem to know more about their lord than Geralt does; after a hefty pause, Harlan sighs, stands, and excuses himself, this time without the pointed judgment in Geralt's direction.
Once the door has closed behind the healer, Sleipnir begins again, though he doesn't, himself, rise from his bed. ]
Master Geralt. For the sake of your investigation, I will be frank with you, but — to use a very clichéd and hackneyed line, indeed an unrivaled classic —
[ As he speaks, he beckons the witcher closer. If he is humored, he leans close enough to Geralt's lips to taste his breath, and whispers: ]
— you are not to breathe a word of this to anyone else.
no subject
Then Sleipnir moves in, more brazen and presumptuous than he's been yet. He could have tilted his chin up, beckoned again for the usual conspicuous whisper in the ear — but he chose to let his breath hit Geralt's rough jaw, instead, a teasing taste of intimacy. He's aware of how pretty he is, patently, and how to use it. On someone less experienced, less used to this particular kind of bullshit, it might have even worked.
Geralt tilts his head mildly toward him, meeting his eyes and calling his bluff in the same motion. Now their lips could brush with an accidental shift, an adjustment of Geralt's footing or Sleipnir's position against his pillows. Geralt keeps very still, eyes flatly calm and sharp. ]
Wouldn't get much work if I had a reputation for talking after jobs like this.
[ He tips his chin, a prompt that briefly changes the air in the scant distance between them. ]
Go on.