Blake is left to grapple with whatever a Witcher thing happens to be; although he's got plenty of guesses, none of them read as particularly obvious when placed like a cellophane sheet over Geralt's image. He reads generic romance novel cover art to Blake — a somewhat kinder description than anyone would probably appreciate if they didn't know just how much Blake enjoyed cheap romance novels. (Most don't).
Armed, purposeful gait, tight attention — Geralt reminds him of someone else he knows, although Bruce Wayne would at least have bothered to introduce himself around his (feined) annoyance.
"Don't have a hissy fit," he says, finally matching Geralt's gait. God, his legs are long, aren't they? But Blake's tenacious even if he has to rush to keep up. "I just thought it was the puur-fic opportunity to take it to the re-tail store. C'mon, don't be a sourpuss."
Blake holds his breath, waits, and wonders if maybe he's about to be growled at. Hey, no one said he couldn't have a sense of humor, even if it's like a needle in his haystack of troubles.
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Armed, purposeful gait, tight attention — Geralt reminds him of someone else he knows, although Bruce Wayne would at least have bothered to introduce himself around his (feined) annoyance.
"Don't have a hissy fit," he says, finally matching Geralt's gait. God, his legs are long, aren't they? But Blake's tenacious even if he has to rush to keep up. "I just thought it was the puur-fic opportunity to take it to the re-tail store. C'mon, don't be a sourpuss."
Blake holds his breath, waits, and wonders if maybe he's about to be growled at. Hey, no one said he couldn't have a sense of humor, even if it's like a needle in his haystack of troubles.