[Dion follows the line of his gaze, realizing... yes. The wolves would not be inclined to let a fellow rot either, especially that which attracts such beasts. He nods.] A fair point.
[Perhaps he does not wish to dirty himself any further.
He imagines the body will join the others on the wagon; that itself may have been enough to attract the beasts further up the road should they have continued without pause. The wagon, at least, seems unaffected, and once the wolves have been updated on the situation, a couple do leave the wagon to retrieve the corpse left behind, with a sheet tucked under one's arm to collect her remains.
They were scattered, after all. Some missing. A grisly sight, to be sure.
Dion cocks his head as he places his lance astride the wagon, his gait only somewhat slowed by the wound. He turns back to the Witcher, brows raised in abject surprise.
Being ordered by ordinary men is still such a... new experience.
Dion does sit, extending his leg, though there is a touch of hesitation in it. Not that he doubts the man's ability to deal with surface-level wounds; it is only now, as he sits, and the pain rockets up his leg, that he cannot wrench the memories of Terence on his knees, poultice in hand. There has not been another man to dress his wound in years upon years. Hardly another man has even laid a hand upon him.
Dion rolls up the leg of his trousers, now heartily stained, to reveal the blood that has dribbled down his leg and begun to dry, until the jagged holes of the wound itself are revealed. The skin is angry and red, and there is traces of saliva and gore that he is sure is not his own. It must have been one that had been feasting upon her.]
Disregarding your lack of manners... you are quick to offer aid. [He rests his hands on either side of him, the grip strangely tight.] Thank you, Geralt.
no subject
[Perhaps he does not wish to dirty himself any further.
He imagines the body will join the others on the wagon; that itself may have been enough to attract the beasts further up the road should they have continued without pause. The wagon, at least, seems unaffected, and once the wolves have been updated on the situation, a couple do leave the wagon to retrieve the corpse left behind, with a sheet tucked under one's arm to collect her remains.
They were scattered, after all. Some missing. A grisly sight, to be sure.
Dion cocks his head as he places his lance astride the wagon, his gait only somewhat slowed by the wound. He turns back to the Witcher, brows raised in abject surprise.
Being ordered by ordinary men is still such a... new experience.
Dion does sit, extending his leg, though there is a touch of hesitation in it. Not that he doubts the man's ability to deal with surface-level wounds; it is only now, as he sits, and the pain rockets up his leg, that he cannot wrench the memories of Terence on his knees, poultice in hand. There has not been another man to dress his wound in years upon years. Hardly another man has even laid a hand upon him.
Dion rolls up the leg of his trousers, now heartily stained, to reveal the blood that has dribbled down his leg and begun to dry, until the jagged holes of the wound itself are revealed. The skin is angry and red, and there is traces of saliva and gore that he is sure is not his own. It must have been one that had been feasting upon her.]
Disregarding your lack of manners... you are quick to offer aid. [He rests his hands on either side of him, the grip strangely tight.] Thank you, Geralt.