[ Mm-hmm. Geralt tilts his head. That's the faint laugh of a man on the edge. He sits back in his chair. Fortunately, Geralt's standards for healers are not high by necessity. If he's in dire need of help, he'll knock on any door that will see to a Witcher. Sometimes it's an old village witch with a goat in her herb garden and a bowl of chicken blood in the kitchen. He takes what he can get.
Now that he thinks about it, this is the most official sort of treatment he's received in recent memory. Last time he was laid out on someone's couch while they scrambled to sew him back up. ]
Few seasons. [ Longer by miles. Long enough he didn't actually arrive in Cadens. He'd fled here from Thorne, settled into the city weeks before they realized they could summon their own. ] Not what you want to hear?
[ Just a presumption. He's been here from the start—close to a year now. Less than encouraging for anyone who has hopes of returning soon. Who has something—someone—perhaps waiting. A patient. ]
no subject
Now that he thinks about it, this is the most official sort of treatment he's received in recent memory. Last time he was laid out on someone's couch while they scrambled to sew him back up. ]
Few seasons. [ Longer by miles. Long enough he didn't actually arrive in Cadens. He'd fled here from Thorne, settled into the city weeks before they realized they could summon their own. ] Not what you want to hear?
[ Just a presumption. He's been here from the start—close to a year now. Less than encouraging for anyone who has hopes of returning soon. Who has something—someone—perhaps waiting. A patient. ]