[ Geralt is not a frequent patron of the Sarstina; the faces there are friendly, familiar. Not that he minds when that's what he's after—he does, on occasion, enjoy the company of friends—but that isn't always the case, and more often than not, he prefers to be alone.
In a rare occurrence, he has his sword sheathed on his back, blood under his nails. Despite the early morning hour, he's already been up and hunting, taking advantage of the cooler nights to do his work before the sun heats up the desert. He's hungry after riding back, hasn't had time to make a meal, and with coin to spare (there's often coin to spare these days), he decides he may as well make a quick stop at the nearest tavern.
Which happens to be Mag's.
When the man looks up from behind the counter, Geralt stops short. His brows draw together. (He'd remember that smile anywhere.) ] Vash?
sarstina.
In a rare occurrence, he has his sword sheathed on his back, blood under his nails. Despite the early morning hour, he's already been up and hunting, taking advantage of the cooler nights to do his work before the sun heats up the desert. He's hungry after riding back, hasn't had time to make a meal, and with coin to spare (there's often coin to spare these days), he decides he may as well make a quick stop at the nearest tavern.
Which happens to be Mag's.
When the man looks up from behind the counter, Geralt stops short. His brows draw together. (He'd remember that smile anywhere.) ] Vash?