Not Ciri, but certainly a voice he recognizes. He strides forward, glimpsing Jo in the fray, and there's a short pause as he assesses—numbers, positioning, and if any more are coming.

Doesn't look like Dean is with her, either.

He steps left, taking the one further from her. It's rearing up to change when a sword through its hardened thorax stops it in its tracks. He wraps both hands around the grip and yanks, splitting it in two. A shriek punctures the air.

There are more little ones scurrying underfoot like plague rats. They latch onto his boot, fangs digging into the leather as they crawl up his leg. He grabs it, one eye on Jo to see how she's faring.