"This isn't what I was expecting," Sam says, cutting the silence between them. Nature calls from all around, plants and animals bringing life that's familiar, but not-quite-real, like everything else: The air, the earth, the white-haired man inspecting his own grounds, even Sam as an invader in this place (but, through the grace of his brother and Geralt's patience, welcome despite this).

He often wanders, but this is the first chance he's taken towards this connection beyond the convenient or expected. By the look of his boots — the mud and the scuffs — he's taken the long way to get here. The sun's warmed the high points of his face and the wind's swept his hair, but the freedom of mind has eluded him regardless, like a wraith.

(Has he ever lived a life settled? The discomfort of being unsettled is like a warm throw, a soft quilt made of disappointment that doesn't even belong to Sam. The stitching is still tight, no threat of unraveling for him anytime soon. It's only lately he's really bothered to try...)

Crouching as well, he looks over the area Geralt is inspecting. A means to an end, mostly.

"A big melt recently?" Obvious, but he can see the signs and hopes to acknowledge quietly the changes happening around them. It's part of the reason he's here, anyway.