She follows his lead, slipping off her horse and into the snow that crunches softly beneath her boots. Despite it, she does not feel cold -- only the pleasant sort of chill that nips at the nose and cheekbones, leaving a flush and a certain incongruous warmth in its wake.
At first, she leads her horse by the reins, looking around while they walk, taking in the rest of the courtyard. The training equipment, in particular. At these, she decides to let go of the sleek black mare, knowing she will stay put (or not, and Ciri shall will her back when she needs her). The horse pauses, watching her master wander the courtyard on the way to the door of the Keep itself, zigzagging slowly away from Geralt and then back again before rushing to catch up as he approaches the door. Then, the horse plods away to go find somewhere out of the snow.
When the heavy wooden doors shut behind them, the great hall seems to open up. Any candles unlit on their black iron chandeliers flicker warmly to light. The firepit crackles. What should have been cold stone walls and empty tables feel surprisingly welcoming, though their emptiness is noted with a fleeting ache of sadness, the stray thought that it feels as though there should be someone else here too. The tree also fills her with a soft discomfort, a melancholy that feels well-worn and inevitable, the type that every person carries in their hearts, just a little bit, with their natures constantly knowing about the fact of death.
Ciri steps toward it, reaching out to brush her fingers very gently over the edge of one dangling medallion. There is a wolf etched upon it, visible through the deep pockmarks that curve through one side, like someone had hammered uneven nails in and yanked them out. She looks at it for a moment. It is such a strange sensation, feeling without knowing.
When she turns to survey the hall and Geralt once again, Ciri's clothes have changed. The cuirass has faded away, any subconscious need for armor gone in the safety of this place; the clothes are similar, but look softer and a little looser, more comfortable, though her sword remains on her back.
"I think it looks perfect."
She just says that, not knowing exactly why she thinks it. But she does.
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At first, she leads her horse by the reins, looking around while they walk, taking in the rest of the courtyard. The training equipment, in particular. At these, she decides to let go of the sleek black mare, knowing she will stay put (or not, and Ciri shall will her back when she needs her). The horse pauses, watching her master wander the courtyard on the way to the door of the Keep itself, zigzagging slowly away from Geralt and then back again before rushing to catch up as he approaches the door. Then, the horse plods away to go find somewhere out of the snow.
When the heavy wooden doors shut behind them, the great hall seems to open up. Any candles unlit on their black iron chandeliers flicker warmly to light. The firepit crackles. What should have been cold stone walls and empty tables feel surprisingly welcoming, though their emptiness is noted with a fleeting ache of sadness, the stray thought that it feels as though there should be someone else here too. The tree also fills her with a soft discomfort, a melancholy that feels well-worn and inevitable, the type that every person carries in their hearts, just a little bit, with their natures constantly knowing about the fact of death.
Ciri steps toward it, reaching out to brush her fingers very gently over the edge of one dangling medallion. There is a wolf etched upon it, visible through the deep pockmarks that curve through one side, like someone had hammered uneven nails in and yanked them out. She looks at it for a moment. It is such a strange sensation, feeling without knowing.
When she turns to survey the hall and Geralt once again, Ciri's clothes have changed. The cuirass has faded away, any subconscious need for armor gone in the safety of this place; the clothes are similar, but look softer and a little looser, more comfortable, though her sword remains on her back.
"I think it looks perfect."
She just says that, not knowing exactly why she thinks it. But she does.
"Show me the rest?"