Too kind! [He snorts, too, and the similarity in their noises makes him laugh even after. He notices that, finally, the shadowing around her face appears to have settled itself, and he likes it. It feels... strangely, it feels real. Even if he knows nothing here is.] I daresay there isn't a soul out there who would claim I'm too kind. Though... all right, I have had plenty say I am a force of attraction as far as strife goes.

[Strife comes in many forms. It comes in banquets that run red with blood, or his throat that spills it. In the treachery of mountain paths and the feeling of being left behind. Of sorceresses who nearly kill the lot of them by bringing a house down on their heads.

Or in wolves who fall for exactly the wrong women. (A small voice in him says, what if it isn't wrong? Not entirely?)]

Neither does he. [His thumbs rub deeply into the reins he holds. It's clear he doesn't mean the wolf, but he -- he sort of does. Now that he knows who it so obviously represents. And that Yennefer has taken such a warmth to it... clearly, the wolf is the same to both of them.

He's not blind. Not as a man, and certainly not as a poet. The way Geralt looks at her is raw. When she came into that tavern, even with a mouthful of Est Est in his mouth and swirling in his head, he could see it.]

Sometimes love is unknowable. But its unknowing does not lessen its strength.