WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

010. the wolf's moon..

Tremors of laughter carried through the snow bristled on winds, from side to side and in high and low swirls. The cold were sharp icicles, turning prune skin paler than the snow, so pale it bruised and became wounded victim of the storm. It was no weather for travellers in the night, no time to let the full moon guide from beyond clouds guiding snow dunes into waves.

When the winter came, it reached all continent as a godly presence. It demanded its chill to be felt, it needed everyone to ache through it. These were the times when the land seemed to be shunning them all away.

On shore of the land of Nazair, with the Marnadal Stair behind and the Great Sea ahead, howls of storm clashed with the angered depths beneath the rock hill. There, on the very edge, laid the ripple through the infinite nothingness.

Nazair used to be a great kingdom in its whole, but now, down south, their very capital was cirppled, siege after siege, in merciless Nilfgaardian conquer, so the land grew tired. It turned dead and quiet. From Amell Mountains to the to the borders of the Nilfgaardian Empire, the lonely lands were unmarked graveyard, to which even the weather got worse than it should have been.

The ripple was a doorway, unseen to those who did not know to look past the ruin of a castle overlooking the sea. Learnt to glance beyond, one would be able to see the splinters of candle lights, to smell a scent that was not seaweed, frozen and salted below, or the dry grass dying somewhere under the creaking snow.

Inside, ruin was no more.

Cobwebs decorated yet each corner, each solid stone, but the roof was sturdy, the floors did not creak for they have been drenched in decorated carpets, walked by so few feet. The table which met whoever entered was prepared for three and everything else one would see inside of the refuge, three would be still.

Only there was just one being, one true stained soul to walk the halls, to climb the stairs or descend in a loop of waiting. That was the hardest hour of a sorcerer's life, to wait for the unchangeable fate.

They stepped down to the table, looked upon it in disgust, then raised their hooded head up, towards the wall to the sea. There, a stained glass round window shaded a red flower over them.

"I know you're here. A voice unable to be placed in neither spectrums of identity murmured out of this transcended sorcerer's body. Behind them, from the tundra of death, from the shadows themselves stepped out the uninvited guests, much awaited. "Geralt of Rivia and my failed creation."

They prayed to the rosa above, until their gaze lowered to the fragments of red light it shed.

"Show me your hands!" Geralt demanded.

What could be read off their bodies, without looking, the nameless sorcerer voiced, "Long have you travelled the distance it was written for you to make. Weary are your bodies, yet so full of hatred. Or your medallion is shivering, Geralt, you must guess what that means."

They knew, hence why the silver sword shone from the White Wolf's grasp, while Azaras had one arrow on her bow, ready. The place they have entered was stenched with the presence of monsters.

"Of course you have guessed," the sorcerer murmured, finally beginning to turn around.

"Your hands!" Geralt demanded again. Two days, hundreds of mage homes checked and each time, their only guidance was what Yennefer had given them, a feature they should look for in the guilty, that of gloves of blood, permanence on skin.

Every so often his eyes focused on Azaras' beside him, slightly behind. They had much to fear for having at last discovered the right place, the right monster to kill, starting and ending with her. Only in the sincerity of last night had they shared those worrying thoughts, when the storm forced them to stop, place the blankets over Roach and crawl altogether underneath the fur Geralt carried for the rougher days.