"Fuck, this was scary as hell!" he wheezes, staring at the spot where, just a moment before, the last of the huge, wolf-like creatures vanished in a puff of smoke. Nothing is left of it and its pack except for a lingering feeling of dread that is giving Cahir the chills.

"Weren't you afraid?" he then asks his comrade.

"I was. Fear's what helps you stay alive on the Path - as long as it doesn't overwhelm you," Coën says, panting no less than his human companion. "Keeps you from making reckless decisions. Only fools aren't afraid of monsters. Glad you're not a fool." He flashes Cahir a big smile.

"Almost pissed my pants," the young knight admits, sheathing the silver sword he borrowed from Kaer Morhen's armoury. The blood on its blade has disappeared together with the many ghostly creatures.

"You didn't, that's what counts." Coën claps his boyfriend on the shoulder with a grin. "You did well - for a human. And I like it when you're all sweaty and dirty," he adds, an amused sparkle in his mismatched eyes.

Cahir blushes. He must be very dirty indeed, his shirt drenched with sweat after the fight, and unlike he himself, Coën with his Witcher senses can easily see it in the dim moonlight.

"What about a nice, hot bath?" Coën then proposes with a suggestive smile that makes Cahir blush bright crimson. "I'm sure the mayor'll be more than willing to give us a decent room at the tavern and provide the heroic slayers of hellhounds with some well-deserved comforts."

Heroic slayers of hellhounds. Sounds good. And not that Cahir would ever complain about the weeks of sharing a campfire and bedroll with Coën, the contrary. But sharing a hot bath and a comfortable bed sounds alluring. And very promising ...