The last time they wound up on an excursion together, Blake had come to Geralt asking if he could lend his sword. Since monster slaying was the job in question, Geralt had agreed. He is not, however, an escort or a guard. Had they not spent time in the mines together, he'd have told Blake there isn't any reason for an escort, and certainly not one of a Witcher's calibre. As far as he's aware, no beasts roam the Nether beyond easy game to be hunted.

But he does recall the pit, the mineshafts, and Blake's reaction each time. So he agrees now, too, grabbing his sword with a sigh that's not really about Blake. Between the politics, the dying dragons, and more politics, he isn't eager to see what unravels by the end of all this. Ideally, nothing that involves more dead dragons or assassination attempts.

They trek towards Featherhive. Could've been his suggestion, could've been Blake's; regardless, Geralt believes it's one of the safer areas in the barren Ashlands. He isn't sure how well Blake can scale a cliff, but discovering the answer is not worth watching the man impale himself on the jagged fossils below.

Mimicking birds should be tolerable. Granted, no one's clarified what they mimic.

At the edge of the poisoned foliage, he indicates for Blake to wait—moving ahead to make sure the area does, in fact, render itself harmless before he gestures for Blake to follow.

He'll never get used to the effect. It's strange to possess this type of...healing magic as a Witcher.

"Watch your head."