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Summary
Only Geralt is out now. Everything feels muffled, only sharpened by the cold biting at his cheeks. It’s not ideal, with the snow reflecting the sky everything is still bright, and shadows are soft, blending into each other. With the snow already disturbed, all Geralt really can do is to remain at high alert. The potions he drank left a tang on the back of his tongue, putrid and nauseating, but every bit necessary. The streets have been decorated since the winter solstice with ribbons and branches tied together to form arches, and absolutely an obstacle for both hunters.
Too late, Geralt notices the shadows thickening around him, and a heavy weight carries him down. His foot slips, and his knee hits the frozen ground before that too is swept from under him. Claws dig into his shoulder, a hot breath hitting the side of his face, reeking of blood and decay. His grip falters, forcing the sword from his hand at the impact. The katakan has pinned him on his front in the snow.