Ciri and Cerys wait for their prey in the Skellige mountains.
A Yuletide art treat.
At the camp they shared Cerys’ warcloak by the fire as they waited for midnight. Ciri told a series of improbably bawdy tales, her bright voice carrying over the high path. From the distance they appeared to be a pair of carefree travellers, but hidden at their feet were fine silver swords and Moon Dust bombs lay near at hand. They were hunting more dangerous prey than erynia this night, and dangerous prey need the perfect lure.
Ciri barely paused her story but her hand squeezed a warning. Mor Annag approached.
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