WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

006. balladeer of high halls..

Once the lute landed between Jaskier's two hands, it took him only about an hour to properly get used to it, bend its notes to his like and by the time he returned to the hall of Kaer Morhen, he had already begun a constant concert, because there were many things he'd rather let out through songs than argue with the brutes which Witchers ultimately were. To sing of Geoffrey, the Knight of Arcapan's Last Gentle Summer, scribble those lyrics down a little piece of parchment with a quill which had seen better days, then wash away the guilt with hymns of sorrow, he had plenty of times voiced before, though less knowledgeable of the feelings.

Righteously, the fact that he started humming almost day and night still caused great annoyance to the majority of Witcher, with accent on Geralt, whom Jaskier had expected more heart from on the subject of belief. None of them agreed to help Arcapan at once, so they would have to deal with the presence of a bard reminding them of that cruelty.

All the sleepless headache came for the better, because Geralt and Azaras finally remembered so to place what they have found in Vesemir's collection, the mark of gratitude from Hengfors League, on the center of their discussion.

"Can we know for certain what this medal of honor has been granted for?" Eskel thoughtfully pondered. He recognized the pin, though he did not think much of it the first he checked his mentor's chambers for clues as to why Kaer Morhen would ever be left prey to attacks of an unknown force. Leaving when his experience was needed most against the odd Blood Sorcerers Order, left the remaining Witchers with no other choice but look for their own before even thinking of checking out the monster rumors associated with Arcapan.

Lambert frowned at the choice of words Eskel used, "Do not make it sound like that old man would ever give his life for just a pin."

Eskel was willing to take in consideration many things, but certainly not looking after a ghost. What definied the remaining Witchers was the fact that they haven't been added to that tree of remembrance, for they have become harder to kill. Between Lambert's skill to fighting styles unmatched, Eskel's intelligence in tactics and signs, to Geralt's brute force and now even Azaras' agility, Vesemir too had made it through twice as more with twice as many perks learnt.

Geralt was a passive observer to this debate over a pin. A pending headache tried him, for Jaskier was once again smelling too strongly of perfume, such that even Azaras' comforting scent right next to him was dulled. The noise was botherint him and all of a sudden, he'd rather they still had monsters on their forteess' land to kill.

But they did not. So he sat quietly, with his arms crossed over his wide chest, looking every once in a while at Azaras, who he would have expected to be more vocal on the topic she preached into existence herself. Now that the glow of his eyes returned to studying her, Geralt enjoyed one moment of contemplation. He felt it has been too long since last he had the luxury of just admiring the gentleness of her stark features.

Relaxed curls have caught freedom out of the braid she requested for him to tangle tighter and tie more certain but a night ago. Those waves fell over her ears, whispered down the curve of her jaw. Azaras' cheekbones carried a faint blush, from the heat and cold her body kept carrying her through; the pink fell over her paleness as a faint rose would be left frozen in fresh snow. For indeed, her skin looked soft, ecen with the ridges of her expression, and the kisses of sunnier days.

A mole, here and there, marked the places Geralt knew his lips have touched before, either roughly or as tender as not to wake her up from a light sleep of softer sighs. Her eyes have changed in time, from green to gold, but the beauty of them flickered as an infinte freedom, contained between dark lines she drew around her eyes.

Azaras has been staring blankly ahead during Geralt's observations, carrying his thoughts from her face, down her neck which had its scar, towards the medallion's prideful shine, down until he watched her hands that have built a line of roughness from all the cold, swords and falls. When his eyes raised again, she was watching him too.