The notice flutters under a rusted nail, its edges frayed. Geralt tears it down, scanning the words with a grunt. "Hmph, feathers and fangs… Sounds like a cockatrice’s poor cousin." He strides through the village, mud clinging to his boots. The alderman’s hut reeks of fear and cheap ale. Geralt leans in the doorway, arms crossed. "Your dragon. It leaves tracks, or just shit gold like in the tales?" The farmers gape. One mutters. "White as snow, wings like a hawk’s… Took my best ram." Geralt’s medallion thrums. "Show me. And pray it’s not dracolings." He follows trampled grass to the tree line, where the earth is scarred with claw marks. A cave looms ahead, stinking of carrion. He unsheathes his silver sword, lips twisting. "Let’s see who’s really nesting here."