Roland the apothecary prepared his note, while the Jailer stood beside him. With Solomon's permission, they walked closer, observing the twitching corpse with great interest. The face of the undead contorted, his head tilted sideways, and his shoulder locked in a way that made both his cheek and his shoulder collide with each other. 

Other than that, the violent spasm has ceased. Like some sort of disgusting contraption, Geralt gradually levered himself up, sitting with legs still outstretched.

Then he turned at them. Red eyes surrounded by dark sclera. His lips twitched, mumbling inaudibly as if his soul was in a process of readapting with his own motoric movement. 

He spasmed once more before vomiting a mixture of blood, pus, and chemicals. His black, disgusting teeth bared wide when he finally made a noise.  

[b]"Morggg Fregricuz ratss,"[/b] It was barely what you called speaking, what the undead did was spit more substance and forced his bowels to make a contraction to his vocal cord. But that alone seemed to be sufficient for the Jailor, who stepped forward gripping their weighed baton and brandished it on their side. 


[b]"Geralt of Black Serpent, you are guilty of the crime against the King of The Nation and The People. Who was the architect of your vile scheme?!"[/b]

A twitch, and nothing else happened, as if the harsh declaration had banished the Old Geralt's consciousness back to etherealness. But he was 'present', eyes opened, mouth agape, but his physical form was still.

Roland suspected that the necromancer played a role in this one. And he hoped it would be some sort of dark version of hypnotism. To command the undead to answer the question, and tell the truth. 

Finally, the undead turned his head, to this and that. And Once again, through the ghastly wound, they saw his lungs expand, they wept a frothy mixture of blood and pus.

"Delving." he said in one full breath, the smell was almost unbearable, yet the undead repeated the name in utter mania. [b]"Delving! Delving Jonas...Jonas Delving!" [/b]

His entire body spasmed, but he grinned when the tremor struck back and caused his head to fall back, mouth opened in a 
soundless cry of joy and pain, the muscle and veins on his neck standing out like wire. 
His right hand raised, on the back of his palm, a fiery marker emerged from his tattoo, glowing like a fiery iron brand. 

Then something happened, he seized the pencil from Roland and stabbed the apothecary in the shoulder. Geralt's sudden mastery of precise movement stunned everyone, allowing the undead to roll down from the table. Turned out for the entire ritual, the dead bastard had taken his time to feel his upper body, reclaiming full control. What he did not calculate was the wound caused by Jazdia's arrow had damaged a portion of his spine, partially paralyzing the lower part of his body. 

[b]"Delving! Cheatin fuckwiz! I did all I could for the cause. Why should I suffer alone? Out of my way!"[/b]  

The undead lurched forward, mustering every will to direct his erratic gait toward the exit, but was quickly stopped by the jailer, who had rushed to ambush the undead and swung their baton at Gerralt's knee. 

He screamed, but not because of the supposed pain the jailer just inflicted. [b]"I lent them my merchandise, my tool, my plaything!!!" [/b]

The stitching was undone, and his rotten entrails spilled out, blood and foul ichor dripping profusely, yet the dead still marched, slower this time, until he finally stopped dead on his track. Shackled by shadow and an ethereal chain cast by the necromancer.

[b]"Eeverything!"[/b] he growled, the frustration was almost humane but turned into a terrifying howl when he screamed a name.

[i][b]"Joormungand!" [/b][/i]

The brand on his hand emanated a crimson smoke, the glow intensified and Geralt was spasming again. The second time he screamed that name, the desperation bled into his voice and it echoed with power that reverberated in the very air.    

[b]"Joormungand! Why have you forsaken me!?" [/b]

The third time he called the name, the voice was almost as broken as he was. The old bastard hunched, the glow on the tattoo gradually wanes as he slumped on the floor. Eyes opened, lungs-- contracting as if alive, yet he was lying still.