[ Ciri senses the eyes on her, head turning to watch his approach. She tips her chin at the chair across the small table as an acknowledgement, a silent go-ahead to indicate the seat is indeed free.

Her lips quirk up at his re-introduction, amused. Still, it's not unwelcome to see a friendly face even if it is only semi-familiar. Sam has a warm smile. ]

I remember. But I'd certainly agree that ale is a better accompaniment to a conversation than a cell.

[ Of course, being out of the dungeon has done Ciri good, even at a glance. For one, she's clean, and wearing clothes that actually fit her. They're simple and look like she's definitely not the first owner, but they are practical and easy to move in-- snug trousers tucked into boots, a loose blouse with sleeves rolled up, cinched with a wide, worn-looking belt where her knife and a couple of canvas pouches hang. Her hair is pinned up in back into a messy bun, loose strands swept over her face to mostly cover the scar. The way she holds herself is more open too, more confident. Turns out, people seem happier when they're not in jail. ]

Didn't expect to run into you again.