[ Sleipnir sighs and makes a sound. You're no fun, the sigh implies, with an added dose of as you wish. Then, with a slightly jaunty wave and a nod of his head, the nobleman turns around to do as his brother's hunter has suggested.
The records of their past attempts at exterminating the thing haunting House Harbard are delivered via squire later that evening. Sleipnir, it seems, is nowhere to be found, and has left Geralt to get the lay of their fortress-estate by himself.
Geralt will have just as much time as he needs to get his bearings before something happens in the night.
It starts, in the classic way, with a knock at his door, but the sound that emerges is not from a grown man's fist but a boy's. The squire from earlier is rapping at Geralt's door, and he sounds somewhat anxious. Geralt might be up already, in all honesty; some rumbling of activity in the hallway started some minutes prior, but when he opens the door he'll get his explanation.
The young boy looks up at him, bites his lip. "M-Master Geralt," he stammers, "come this way? L-Lord Sleipnir was a-attacked, see, by the beast —"
He's holding himself together rather admirably, but clearly the child is shaken. A chirurgeon in a white robe goes running down the corridor; some maidservants hastily pulling on their overgarments follow after, less because they'll be immediately useful and more because they want to see what's happened.
Young Lord Sleipnir, it seems, is alive. Not too grievously injured — Geralt will be able to tell that much just by looking at him. It just looks bad, the way the blood has seeped through that loose white shirt of his — apparently he wore it to bed, too — but none of his injuries are life-threatening. The chirurgeon is already bent over him, healing his wounds.
Claw marks along his ribs, a gash below his eye. It makes him look sort of rakishly dangerous as his blue eyes swivel up at Geralt, somehow mocking in spite of the way he's crumpled against the wall and heaving slow breaths. ]
Geralt. [ He's dropped the "Master" quickly. ] Shouldn't you be on its trail?
no subject
The records of their past attempts at exterminating the thing haunting House Harbard are delivered via squire later that evening. Sleipnir, it seems, is nowhere to be found, and has left Geralt to get the lay of their fortress-estate by himself.
Geralt will have just as much time as he needs to get his bearings before something happens in the night.
It starts, in the classic way, with a knock at his door, but the sound that emerges is not from a grown man's fist but a boy's. The squire from earlier is rapping at Geralt's door, and he sounds somewhat anxious. Geralt might be up already, in all honesty; some rumbling of activity in the hallway started some minutes prior, but when he opens the door he'll get his explanation.
The young boy looks up at him, bites his lip. "M-Master Geralt," he stammers, "come this way? L-Lord Sleipnir was a-attacked, see, by the beast —"
He's holding himself together rather admirably, but clearly the child is shaken. A chirurgeon in a white robe goes running down the corridor; some maidservants hastily pulling on their overgarments follow after, less because they'll be immediately useful and more because they want to see what's happened.
Young Lord Sleipnir, it seems, is alive. Not too grievously injured — Geralt will be able to tell that much just by looking at him. It just looks bad, the way the blood has seeped through that loose white shirt of his — apparently he wore it to bed, too — but none of his injuries are life-threatening. The chirurgeon is already bent over him, healing his wounds.
Claw marks along his ribs, a gash below his eye. It makes him look sort of rakishly dangerous as his blue eyes swivel up at Geralt, somehow mocking in spite of the way he's crumpled against the wall and heaving slow breaths. ]
Geralt. [ He's dropped the "Master" quickly. ] Shouldn't you be on its trail?