By month's end, restlessness has coiled around his bones. A day or two of riding does little to satisfy the itch. Geralt knows of only one cure: to search for something to kill. So that's what he's doing. Searching for a worthwhile contract, one that will take him not too far from the city—just in case—but won't end within the hour.
He starts at the apothecaries. Assumes that with the abductions barely in the past, they'll be short on folk willing to venture into the desert heart. Which is exactly what he finds: a harried shopkeeper who thrusts a crumpled list of parts into his hands and a promise of coin. Geralt doesn't give a shit about the money, to be frank, but he has a reputation to uphold; he's not about to give anybody the impression he'll work out of charity. He eyes both the list and the offered payment.
It'll do.
Folding the parchment in two, Geralt pushes open the shop door to greet the dusty cobblestone street. Someone's either walking in or walking past, and he sidesteps them without a second thought—then pauses for a split second, a glance over his shoulder, as he catches the familiar face.
blake.
He starts at the apothecaries. Assumes that with the abductions barely in the past, they'll be short on folk willing to venture into the desert heart. Which is exactly what he finds: a harried shopkeeper who thrusts a crumpled list of parts into his hands and a promise of coin. Geralt doesn't give a shit about the money, to be frank, but he has a reputation to uphold; he's not about to give anybody the impression he'll work out of charity. He eyes both the list and the offered payment.
It'll do.
Folding the parchment in two, Geralt pushes open the shop door to greet the dusty cobblestone street. Someone's either walking in or walking past, and he sidesteps them without a second thought—then pauses for a split second, a glance over his shoulder, as he catches the familiar face.