[ A contest, that much is clear from the murmured betting amongst the audience, but once Childermass gets close enough, he’ll actually see the competitors. A burly faun with impressive ram horns is fixed in an arm wrestling contest with Lambert, the muscles in their arms taut with tension as they try to pin the other down.
It’s a little hard to tell who’s winning at the moment, but the witcher’s mad grin reveals teeth more slightly pronounced than they used to be, and his fingers end in long, blunt claws. ]
Give it up, old goat. [ He sneers. ] We know who’s walking away from this.
[ The exertions of the evening — he’s already more than a few drinks in, that much is obvious— have the back of his shirt riding up, exposing a strip of sandy fur that disappears into his waistband. ]
no subject
It’s a little hard to tell who’s winning at the moment, but the witcher’s mad grin reveals teeth more slightly pronounced than they used to be, and his fingers end in long, blunt claws. ]
Give it up, old goat. [ He sneers. ] We know who’s walking away from this.
[ The exertions of the evening — he’s already more than a few drinks in, that much is obvious— have the back of his shirt riding up, exposing a strip of sandy fur that disappears into his waistband. ]