Adrian dragged himself from his contemplation of the blood on his hands, staring into Bogdan’s eyes with something a little like understanding. He nodded slightly. Grigory needed his help, and shamefully it wasn’t he who had been able to give it. He pulled himself to his feet, slumping a little as the table fell askew and almost toppled onto him as he used it to stabilise himself. Though it was difficult to concentrate on anything right then, and his simple peasant tunic was stained with blood, he struggled to understand what conversation he had picked up around him. People were obviously trying to make sense of what had happened with what information they had, and he considered this as he rested by Grigory, laying a hand in some comforting way on the major wound he had suffered upon his leg. The man himself was sound unconscious, which made it easier for the fairly inexperienced Adrian to apply pressure assuming he was doing the right thing. 

The witch, that was what he had heard. It wasn’t enough to make any conclusions, but as he sat there growing light headed from alcohol and blood loss his inhibitions were low and his anger was rising. The red in his cheeks slowly overcame the whiteness and for a short while the usually awkward and passive farmhand drew himself into something of a quiet fury.

“If anyone…” He began quietly, coughed painfully and then continued, his heart wrenching. “If anyone knows why this has happened to us they had better speak now, or I swear to God I’ll kill them myself.” He spat angrily, and then slumped as if drained. It could be considered naïve or stupid to immediately blame one of the assembled villagers, but then again human nature dictates a scapegoat is usually required to help deal with terrible situations, and with the talk he had managed to hear, Adrian was willing to start throwing out accusations, damned be the consequences.