.̮ㅤㅤpowrót białego 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙠𝙖. ㅤ...ㅤ⁺

# lasthail . hail  mary  ,        full  of  grace  , holy  mary  ,        mother  of  god  ,        pray  for  us  sinners  ,      now  and  at  the  hour  of  our  death  .

Independent ,     private ,   &.   plot-based  rp  blog  for  dr. captain ryland grace  from  andy weir's project hail mary  (novel)  &.   project hail mary  (2026) .  book-canon  with  movie  influences .  written  by  kat ,  she/her ,  30 .  i  am  not  affiliated  with  andy weir .     read  my  carrd  !     no  minors  please .

ELDRITCH HORROR STARTER CALL @wiedzlak !

THE EARTH SHUDDERS AND BUCKS UNDER THE WEIGHT OF GIANT LIMBS, sending the fleeing pair careening to the ground more than once. the sky is blotted out by the mighty shape, its rack of antlers crafted from a thousand bones stark against the clouds like tree branches, each sharp point adorned with something long dead. it blinks a dozen milky eyes down at them, lifting a leg entwined with roots and slamming in back into the earth. the loamy scent of uprooted earth bled into the pungent rot that hung around the creature in a miasma, the tendrils of which threatened to suffocate. vasya gags, eyes watering as she picks herself up, taking off again in a sprint without sparing her companion a second glance. if he was smart he would stay close, she could offer nothing else. 〝 THIS WAY !   〞

he controls the surge of adrenaline within his veins,    lets it carry him farther along,    matching pace with vasya in spite of the screaming of his calves.    the beat of his heart does not quicken past what he allows it to,    and his breaths come shallowly,    steady even as he leaps across the trembling landscape for his life.    in front of him by several bodies,    vasya teeters in tandem,    calling out the tower in question.    how a red glow at a tower could possible paralyse the creature in question is beyond him        but he has no hope now but to follow his only guide.

❝    how        ❞         a lone branch snags his boot,    and the lone syllable wavers before snapping off,    as geralt focuses on keeping his balance.    he loses half a meter,    REGAINS IT AS HE DODGES A LOW LIMB THAT VIBRATES AT A FREQUENCY EVEN HIS SENSES CAN’T DISCERN.          ❝    how are we supposed to outrun this thing ?!    ❞

He opened them fully to present Lambert his attention as he was spoken to, a small grin forming on his features. Funny how Lambert may believe that Geralt was able to push him to do much past what he didn't want to do. Perhaps Geralt hadn't spoken too much of him to his brothers. --Or perhaps they just didn't listen. That answer felt better in his mind.

Geralt responded before he could, and so he was quick to lift his head briefly to nod in affirmation.

admittedly,    geralt doesn’t all disagree.    drunken promises are made in truth and in jest,    oftentimes taken back within the day.    jaskier hadn’t backed off of it,    and had held his own surprisingly well on the way northward,    in spite of the cold weather.    the snows hadn’t yet fallen,    but the mountainous winds of the approaching winter leave no room for enjoyment.

❝    you made it here.    that’s a feat,    ❞        comes geralt’s voice,    not loud enough for lambert to overhear,    but enough that he knows jaskier can.    he squints just so,    to show the bard how content he is with the answer.

then he returns his attention to the table spanning in front of them.        ❝    rather empty.    are you hungry,    jaskier ?    ❞

no wonder anarietta had found this witcher so intriguing. (even if her words had tended to drift towards his bard more often.)

"perhaps most witchers would've stilled their blades, but i assure you few knights would have," celine replies coolly, though her voice is lowered thoughtfully as they pass a group of squires rushing towards the next event. "i've found here that chivalry tends to require grandiosity. after all, surely there is no strength, nor valor and certainly not cunning, to be found by sparing such a creature, not when the crowd will roar far louder for its death regardless of its fright or confusion." her gaze slides from the privacy of the grove of trees before them to find his. her next words are softer. "it was good of you to do that, geralt."

once certain they are out of earshot from the swarm of nobles, knights and merchants alike, celine arches a dark brow as the corner of her lip twitches. "would you have me hidden away in the shadows of the palace, scheming and plotting? not all sorceresses are prone to such hobbies, i assure you. besides," for a brief moment, her composure slips and the afternoon light streaming through verdant leaves above betray the faint shadows beneath her eyes, "beauclair is frightened. i would hope to project normalcy where and when i might to help counter that fear. fear has a nasty habit of being the kindling that sparks pyres, as i believe you saw in the north."

what word of the chaos of the northern kingdoms had made its way to toussaint had been chilling. mobs eager to build altars of flames searching for anyone to sacrifice in their stupidity and fear, with too many mages & non-humans just within reach. it had not taken long for her disgust to shift into dread at the thought of such creeping south.

her decorum proves promising amongst the colours and existence of the people of toussaint.    they also strike him as incredibly fitting for that of a sorceress.    those he's met have striven to remain in reciprocal standing with the courts.    any doors they could shove their toes into,    they would,    without hesitancy and without shame.    though her face is unfamiliar and her name unknown to geralt,    he can at least assume her studies consisted of aretuza's teachings.    of that,    the witcher is exceedingly familiar.    almost painfully so.

perhaps,    then,    this unfamiliarity is what spurns him on,    as they shield themselves from toussaint's southern sun beneath the canopy of leaves and branches above.    when a sorceress is interested,    IT OFTEN DEMANDS AN EQUAL SACRIFICE.    usually from his own end.    they are but two of a kind,    unfit for common society and assuming the semblance of the others’ motives.    in geralt’s experience,    he shares as much interest with sorceresses as he does the opposite.

❝    not much.    ❞        a lie strewn as the truth,    as easily as it comes.    he knows the cause.    knows of the two vampires currently lurking about        knows of the trustworthiness of one and the unfamiliarity of the other.    despite regis’ efforts to dissuade geralt from his views,    the witcher has never been one to shake himself from his bad feelings,    on account of his lifelong duties.    NOR DOES IT MEAN HE’LL REVEAL SO EASILY THE RESULTS OF HIS FINDINGS.        ❝    the members of your ducal guard are being targeted.    by what,    we don’t know.    ❞        his expression remains easily neutral.        ❝    don’t know if there’s a pattern,    either.    lot of reason for people to be worried.    if anna henrietta thinks it appropriate to hire a witcher,    then it must be something    …    ❞

his gaze finds her,    footsteps lagging in stride.        ❝    what’s your interest ?    ❞

HE CAN ONLY HOPE IT’S BEFORE SOME MONSTER TOSSES HIM INTO A DITCH.

❝    you’re correct.    this is nearly as far west as i’ve gone.    i haven’t had the chance to travel as far as the coast,    and not at all to temeria.    while i’m unfamiliar with the work,    there is enough to be done here.    ❞        he doesn’t mention how most of his request have been mundane tasks conjured up by villagers desperate for a change in their routines,    in people who only wanted to revel in a witcher’s work.    no monsters,    only fetching ingredients,    only asking for husbands and wives to be ratted out.    nothing worth a meal.        ❝    though the hospitality is nothing to admire.    ❞        he runs the back of his spoon lightly against the inner curve of his bowl.        ❝    you’re not from skellige,    are you ?    ❞

walking as quickly as she can through the throngs of people swirling in and out of the rows of tents, she finally approaches the witcher. "if you run out of monsters to slay, master geralt, you ought to consider joining more tournaments. i can't remember the last time any combatant quite so captivated beauclair's nobility. i swear that i saw at least 2 of her grace's attendants swoon and a very wealthy merchant fan himself when you took the field," there is a flicker of a smile on her lips as she nods her head in greeting. anything less than a (practiced) image of normalcy in front of so many would be a mistake.

a quick, discrete jut of her chin towards one of the paths leading into a grove of trees immediately follows. her eyes then find the feline sheen of geralt's as her voice lowers. "i thought perhaps we might find a few minutes to speak alone?" though it is phrased as question, there is an undercurrent of force in her words that reveals it to be more of an order.

❝    don't know of many witchers who wouldn't,    ❞        comes his answer.    a lie.    surely,    there are others who would take pity in watching a harmless creature forced to perform for the masses,    certainly.    but witchers are bred to cut down the conjunction's offspring,    no matter whether for good or ill of those around.    the benefit of a monster hardly crosses their minds.

she takes an interest to him that is kinder than the usual.    after his travels in the north,    and even skellige itself,    the complimentary presence is welcome.    but there's nothing more interesting than to one oneself the appeal,    in both ways.    and geralt has already taken to the manner of her inquiry :    the shaelmaar should be a segue into something else.    the witcher doesn't consider himself flawlessly perceptive … but his path has taken him to far too many places to think otherwise.

❝    i spared it because it was the right thing to do.    nothing more.    ❞        at her side,    geralt watches the way her gown trails over her arm,    concealing from the vineyards and rolling hills what he only imagines is the fairer skin of her forearm.        ❝    people tie these creatures up for their own fun,    then wonder why they find their storehouses destroyed and their towns scorched.    ❞        not that a shaelmaar could cause as much damage.    the sentiment remains,    no accusation in his voice.        ❝    why'd you attend the tourney ?    ❞

ㅤㅤㅤ❛ ㅤ⸻ BUT WE CAN'T CLOSE OUR EYES AND PRETEND. EVERY ONE OF US STILL BREATHING OWES OUR FALLEN BRETHREN A DEBT. and we pay that debt with a life well lived. that's what i believe. ❜

⸻ # sitheac, ⸻ an independent, private,  &.  selective rp blog for KLIFF OF THE GREYMANES, from pearl abyss' CRIMSON DESERT.  acting leader of the greymanes, warrior ... and sheep owner. game-canon with heavy headcanon influence.