[ It's a pitcher for a reason: if Alucard wants nothing to do with the ale, Geralt's willing to drink it himself. He has all night and a deep desire to not be sober. But he'll not argue against Alucard putting down coppers of his own. He pockets his again without pause.

A soft noise comes in reply. There is none he's hoping for: if there were, he'd have said it in the first place, what he wants. Few words, as Alucard said. He has no particular point he wants Alucard to reach. It's that he thinks Alucard hasn't managed to reach anything at all. That there's something festering—growing, unchecked, because the vampire would rather allow it than confront why it's there. ]

I've no interest in making conclusions on your behalf. [ He sits back, drawing the mug towards himself. ] That's your business, not mine. But you can't make them hiding from the world. For someone so afraid that I might take your life, you're incredibly eager to give up living.