[So this man- this Geralt- is from another faction. Another country probably, possibly even another side. It would explain his lack of uniform, as well as his lack of knowledge about this side's capability to summon.
Normally? He'd say nothing and leave. He'd hop the slow-moving wagon and set off back to the facility himself- but not out of loyalty to Cadens. More like his wish to not be involved- to keep his head down and bide his time until an earnest attempt at getting out could be gained- and taking a stroll with a potential enemy seemed a damn good way to stand out.
At the jolt, his hand reaches out toward some haphazardly nailed together wood serving as a frame for the wagon's bed. But he pauses- his gaze- cast downward still- fixing to the door. His pupils dilate.
A wasteland around him, like this desert... kind of, just stripped of all colour. A truck bed. Rusted. Filthy. The spluttering of an engine that'd seen better days. A... radio?
Suddenly, he feels sick.
Sooooo what're you gonna do when we reach-
Pain. He turns pale. He closes his eyes.
It's gone. He looks up- just in time to see a reflex more animal than human.]
... Nice catch.
[His voice is lower than he'd like. He turns his gaze away, again.]
...Cloud.
[And don't bother saying anything. I've heard every joke. he wants to say- but he stays silent. He inhales, deeply, trying to will away some residual nausea.]
no subject
Normally? He'd say nothing and leave. He'd hop the slow-moving wagon and set off back to the facility himself- but not out of loyalty to Cadens. More like his wish to not be involved- to keep his head down and bide his time until an earnest attempt at getting out could be gained- and taking a stroll with a potential enemy seemed a damn good way to stand out.
At the jolt, his hand reaches out toward some haphazardly nailed together wood serving as a frame for the wagon's bed. But he pauses- his gaze- cast downward still- fixing to the door. His pupils dilate.
A wasteland around him, like this desert... kind of, just stripped of all colour.
A truck bed. Rusted. Filthy.
The spluttering of an engine that'd seen better days.
A... radio?
Suddenly, he feels sick.
Sooooo what're you gonna do when we reach-
Pain.
He turns pale.
He closes his eyes.
It's gone.
He looks up- just in time to see a reflex more animal than human.]
...
Nice catch.
[His voice is lower than he'd like.
He turns his gaze away, again.]
...Cloud.
[And don't bother saying anything. I've heard every joke. he wants to say- but he stays silent. He inhales, deeply, trying to will away some residual nausea.]