WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

003. blood and guts..

Bellows winded the yard. Cackles of deserted dummies torn in trainings shattered the sounds of silence against wooden walls and stones with holes covered by frozen snow. They all creaked.

Amidst the chaos, blood splattered in thin drops and trails on the snow under Lambert's boots. That splash of color caught Azaras' attention from the greyness shadowed by a flying beast above them. The sense of Geralt's wit of reaction caught the meaning of a sight behind the amber of Eskel's eyes.

He was holding Lambert as still as possible, against a pillar, toward the open area which used to harbor pigs when the Witcher business thrived off of coffers filled with coins. Now, those stalls were empty, reaking only of an old, cold dirt that sucked on Lambert's gritted anger, got drunk off his struggle to remain silent. The man was grasping his fingers digging into a slash over his whole shoulder.

They were hiding.

Clouded and blurred only by the low storm staring above, a winged beast was circling closer to Kaer Morhen's taller towers. One of them has been knocked off by the claws of the creature, reaking flesh and dripping soaked fur, feather and scales, hence the sound which brought Geralt and Azaras to the battle already started and already decided as well.

Too little had Azaras noticed before Geralt had decided for them both to let the sword speak dances of desth later.

Without turning back and getting the attention of that beast all on themselves, he'd have to roll instead with what he knew was happening. Eskel was on the right track, dropping flammable oils in a puddle in the middle of the yard that has already been attacked once. Lambert got hurt, but the trap was set and all they had to do was not mess it up for him.

A flutter of wings thundered in the skies.

There was only one hiding place close to Geralt and Azarad in the yard and that was under the wide podium built to reach the laddered ramp, to the west side of the fortress. Usually, there would be barrels stored there, but now, the pallot was as empty as their kitchen and between each plank, a generous space would make them visible to any human eye. Luckily, they were hiding from a monster.

That draconian variation brought only shame to the species it belonged to, for it lacked intelligence, almost as dubiously as its carnal nature doubled its wings' strength and overall appetite for raw meat. It started diving when Geralt pulled Azaras after him.

They slid under the pallot, turned side to side and that was the second when Azaras ignored the quake of the ground under the landing of the monster and looked up at wood so close to her face and chest that her blood boiled beyond the coldness of the frozen soil she laid on. Her breath hitched in her throat. The familiar feeling curated her into widening her eyes and instinctively twitching towards the exit, anywhere on her side or upwards, anywhere but there.

Geralt held Azaras' hand tighter, a prominent action which got her eyes to turn to him while her body suddenly paralyzed.

He had almost forgotten about the last time she has been "crushed" and forced in such enclosed spaces, but neither did he think there was any other choice better for them to take when the fanning breath of the draconian started melting snow aroune, sniffing. Fortunately for them both, her small period of lacking voice has gifted them with a code to share, wordlessly, made out of signs that caught meaning just for them. Without any sound, so, they could communicate and he could calm her down, the best he could.

"Hide. No. Move." Geralt signed, leaving behind minimal creaks. The monster stomped the yard and raised the oil up to its knees.

Azaras could not move even an inch to answer, until she saw no one else but Geralt. Then, from her intently watch of him, she raised her left hand and signed just one word, "Plan?"