WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

005. a price on power..

Hands locked, elbows fixed on the table made even with splinters under its legs creaking on the floor of the tavern now sweating away the excitement of a crowd itching for its entertainment out of the ordinary casualties. Eye to eye, Azaras' gaze was a seductive and dangerous thing to have across the table from yourself in any game of strength.

In front of Creyden's gates under waves of arrows flying over his head, less accurate now that they aimed at people trying to escape the fight, Sylvain's eyes were shadow of blood. He gulped red hugrily, while trails slipped from the corners of his mouth.

Off Azaras' chin fell just the drop from a river of ale, because her left hand has been given a mug, while her right arm was into battle with men thinking their own right was stronger. The back of the hand which reached the table surface first lost, only her adversaries were red of fury and she was sprawled on her seat like she owned it. Her own flush was a blush of alcohol and power.

Power turned crimson burning into Sylvain's breath, calling greedily for more, until the very field would tumble its gravestone inside his mouth. He raised without his sword.

Azaras' sword rested beside her, hilt against the table. She was toying with the man, though the duel long started. While her hand twitched, trying to raise the hopes of her adversary, Jaskier was coming alive on a song for which he had stolen a new lute from the "untalented" bards he met in that place.

The battlefield's song was terror. Screams were drapes Sylvain let caress his skin while he pushed forward, towards the next victim, charging at him. Sylvain grinned.

She smirked, knowingly and tightened her hand.

Sylvain's hand stopped the arms extended with a sword by capturing its wrist so tight a bone breaking sound was a drum to the highest note of wails.

The table creaked and the crowd's ovations went wild around as for a third time, Azaras pushed her adversary's hand to the surface of their match. "Is that the best you have?" She teased with her arms spread to the sides and her right knee bouncing ever so lightly to Jaskier's song, raging fire of passion coming alive as the coins poured from the bets against Azaras into his also "borrowed" hat.

Across the crowds, he'd wink at Azaras.

Across the field, Yulis'd watch Sylvain's each step.

A heavy drop shook the table and had Azaras' sword slid towards her. She caught it with one finger of her left hand, coming off the mug she was holding, her eyes raised to see a more solid man, definitely sober enough to consider his muscles would be more of a match for the tiny woman who had proved her valor with them, sit down and offer his right hand to the challenge.

Sylvain leaned back and a sword descended on the legs he had been munching into, tearing and cutting with his teeth, much sharper than ever before, for they grew inhuman to the master's spoilt soul. From the blood and flesh he gulped, feeling fullfilled, Sylvain raised before the much bigger and older man, wearing Hengfors honors; he had volunteered to be dropped as support for Creyden and he had never seen the cannibalism drip from the laughter of a mad king.

Azaras felt some resistance at last so she left the drinking for later. The mug dropped on the table and she put concentration onto the coming alive of the muscle rising her rolled shirt into a rounded hill of her upper arm seemingly so thin. Her head tilted gently, curiously still daring the man to put more effoet though her hand started tilting towards the table too.

Sylvain moved his chin slowly upwards, enjoying each blow of a sword he barely missed. He was weaponless, stepping back in a dancer's grace. But it was a monster's speed and cruelty which gave him the momentum to strike.