( The question is met, initially, with silence. He's tempted to ask what fucking business is it of yours, tempted to shut the whole thing down again, just like he'd done all those weeks ago at the hot spring. Gods know it's not like he's in a better mood today than he'd been then.
Maybe it's what he's heard from these fucking birds that edge him out of that instinct. Just the faintest bits of curiosity that he won't be able to press on if he shuts down his side of the conversation.
The answer he ultimately settles on is deeply wry and faintly sarcastic — like it's an inside joke, except nobody else is in on it here but himself. )
Tending to lost wolves.
( Which undoubtedly makes no fucking sense whatsoever to Geralt, but he can't be bothered to give a shit about that. It's accurate. )
no subject
Maybe it's what he's heard from these fucking birds that edge him out of that instinct. Just the faintest bits of curiosity that he won't be able to press on if he shuts down his side of the conversation.
The answer he ultimately settles on is deeply wry and faintly sarcastic — like it's an inside joke, except nobody else is in on it here but himself. )
Tending to lost wolves.
( Which undoubtedly makes no fucking sense whatsoever to Geralt, but he can't be bothered to give a shit about that. It's accurate. )