She eats slowly and silently; though she keeps expecting a sudden wave of hunger to overtake her, it never does, and she barely makes it through a quarter of what he's given her before she sets the bowl to the side with the glass of water. Nadine's potion is gradually setting in, relieving some of the pain in her joints and limbs, especially in her arms where her veins still appear dark through her skin.

Geralt comes back and she lets out a deep sigh, closing her eyes as he wipes her face. When she opens them again, her sclera are still scarlet from broken blood vessels. It hasn't yet entered her mind to contact anyone else. At the moment, it's hard for her to think outside of this tent, like the world doesn't exist beyond the shadows of the flickering fire on the canvas.

While he cleans her face, she watches him in exhausted silence. It's not until he's done that she says anything, and when she does, her voice is soft. Pitiful, in a way that's too obviously drained to be anything but honest. She doesn't have the energy to play any mind games.

"Are you mad at me?"