"Mother of fuck." Lambert grunts as he helps Ciri lift off her shirt to reveal her wound. "How are you not dead, brat? That's one he'll of a cut for just being on the grounds." He frets, leaning over with his cloth soaked with water and iodine.
"Lambert." Eskel hisses as he unwraps Ciri's torn hand wraps. "For fucks sake."
"What? That's an impressive slice even for the pendulum." He raises his eyebrows. "Hardly my fuckin' fault if the thing broke and sliced her up."
"It is when you're the one who goaded her onto the thing in the first place, knobhead." Coën interjects, coming over with a basin of hot water, setting it on the table. "You alright, girl?"
"Stings." Ciri hisses when Lambert continues to clean her large wound. "And my hands, they hurt."
"They're not broken, pup." Eskel tries to soothe, although the deep cuts she had gotten from the scattered wood when the machine had broken do surprise him. It seems the leather wrappings did fuck all to protect her small hands from the jagged wood, he can count almost two dozen small slices ranging in size. "You're just cut up, we'll wash them up and get some bandages on." He says, leaning her arms over to place them in the bucket of hot water. Ciri hisses at the contact, but does little more.
"You're alright, girl." Coën comes over to the other side, looking at her wound from the back. "It'll need to be stitched up, but that's it. You haven't injured your insides or anything, no bruised blood." He tries to comfort her as best he can as Lambert pours pure iodine to disinfect the wound. Ciri tenses, crying out.
"Shh." Eskel pets her hair, still holding her hands in the water by her wrists. "You're okay, pup."
"Hurts." she choked. "Where's Geralt?"
"Fucker is still traipsing around the woods with Vesemir, there's a coupl'a griffins that're probably gonna nest. Best get them out of the way before the keep gets covered in snow." Lambert explains. "Should be back after supper. And he can bust all of our balls when he sees the state of you." He adds bitterly. "Wolf gets predatorial of his pup, you know?"
"More protective of her than you with the last of the gull." Coën smirks at his brother in arms. Lambert flips him off, before getting back to work.
"He might leave us with a ball each after he sees no infection. Hopefully." Lambert cringes.
Ciri chuckles at his face. "He'll be too busy frettering like a mother hen for the first hour or two. Brew him some drink to soften the blows, you witchers can drink yourself into a stupor with it, he'llbe too drunk to remember, and the cycle'll continue."
Coën laughs. "The pup is wise, lambchop."
"When your papa wolf gives us the okay, you'll be on the list to ply with drink whenever we piss you off by way of apology, you know that, witcher girl?"
"Good luck getting that past him, you'll kill him with alcohol poisoning, if that's possible with you witchers, before he lets that happen."
"We'll see, little wolf. We'll see."
