Between his own recovery and keeping an eye on Ciri, Geralt has mostly kept his days occupied. He doesn't ever enjoy not having something to do, especially when he's not yet hunting—though he has picked up a contract or two he means to look into soon. In the meantime, the house's newest addition has a matching bed to Mog's, he's added a new shelf to the kitchen, and somewhere along the way, he also enlisted Julie and Jaskier to help...more formally celebrate Ciri's name day. With him there, this time.

The previous year had been somewhat shadowed. And though he knows Ciri has not completely shed what's recently passed, they are still here and home, and perhaps that's plenty for those like them.

Shit out of clever ideas to remove Ciri's medallion from her possession without her noticing or being upset it's gone, Geralt simply asked her for it a week ago. His gift will no doubt be little surprise as a result. As long as she likes it, that's all which matters.

He finds her with a bottle in one hand and a purring leosylph in the other. (He'll name it eventually.) Aside from the permanent scar etched up his arm, there are no visible signs he ever nearly absconded the living.

He perches next to Ciri and watches the feline poke a paw out. "Enjoying yourself?"