[ Geralt is content to relinquish the meat to her. His ability to cook is strictly practical. He leans back against the counter instead. He lets his gaze roam over the pictures on Sam's walls: the replicated images of faces and people that's never been explained to him. They aren't paintings. Last time he was here, he'd simply accepted the existence of them as they were. Unquestioning, in the absolute comfort of Sam's strange home. ]
Average taste. [ He's squinting a little at Himeka, like he might uncover a missing piece of this baffling conversation. What the fuck is she talking about? Perhaps it isn't important. She hasn't overindulged in the wine, he can tell, so whatever's going on between her...horns...it seems only she's privy to it.
Anyhow. ]
Red deer. Specifically. Need a hand? [ Since he's here. Might as well do something. ]
no subject
Average taste. [ He's squinting a little at Himeka, like he might uncover a missing piece of this baffling conversation. What the fuck is she talking about? Perhaps it isn't important. She hasn't overindulged in the wine, he can tell, so whatever's going on between her...horns...it seems only she's privy to it.
Anyhow. ]
Red deer. Specifically. Need a hand? [ Since he's here. Might as well do something. ]