Jo is staring at that dark, fingers on the gun covered in that black body sludge that isn't blood, trying to press hard enough, slipping just slightly. She can't see anything. It's just darkness. Just that sound. The slap of paws and scraping of claws has her frozen. Not even a gun this time. No other weapon. Her brain won't agree to move, slam into action. Even the weight of the sludge on her shirt feels too right. Soaked through, heavy-slick. Dipping everywhere.
Something happens suddenly, and Jo swings to look at Geralt (even as her brain s c r e a m s that's the wrong move, don't look away, don't look away, don't look away). His hand is out, and the ripples of magic are visible even when the hellhound isn't. Waves slam through the air, all too clear compared to the nothing still in the space the magic flares into, as the hound yelps, and the body can be heard rolling, hitting the wall, scrambling hard in its attempt to get back up, to fight back, that growl turning full-throated into barking.
It's not there. But it is. It's just a series of noises echoing.
Geralt still has his knife and canvases the dark in a rush. But, somehow, the sound of the feet, claws clicking, is between them next, nothing in the air at all still, but it's there, and Jo scrambles back into the wall, as small as possible suddenly, terror an unquenchable spike, hands dropping the gun as she's instinctively, desperately wrapping her arms around her stomach, her mind reproducing in every cell the violent pain ripping her wide open before it's even started again.
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Something happens suddenly, and Jo swings to look at Geralt (even as her brain s c r e a m s that's the wrong move, don't look away, don't look away, don't look away). His hand is out, and the ripples of magic are visible even when the hellhound isn't. Waves slam through the air, all too clear compared to the nothing still in the space the magic flares into, as the hound yelps, and the body can be heard rolling, hitting the wall, scrambling hard in its attempt to get back up, to fight back, that growl turning full-throated into barking.
It's not there. But it is. It's just a series of noises echoing.
Geralt still has his knife and canvases the dark in a rush. But, somehow, the sound of the feet, claws clicking, is between them next, nothing in the air at all still, but it's there, and Jo scrambles back into the wall, as small as possible suddenly, terror an unquenchable spike, hands dropping the gun as she's instinctively, desperately wrapping her arms around her stomach, her mind reproducing in every cell the violent pain ripping her wide open before it's even started again.