True to form, Geralt simply directs Blake straight down the corridor, passing by the three bedchambers and a multitude of potted plants. This house is a luxury that Geralt is not entirely unused to—Yen likes her comforts—but which was seldom his to have in any permanent manner. Until now.
Why Blake has come here, Geralt chose not to question closely. The man clearly hasn't many places to turn nor, apparently, much by way of coin. And though Geralt does not do charity, denying Blake such a small thing feels akin to throwing a scruffy stray out onto the street without a scrap.
So. Here they are.
Wordlessly, he pushes open the door. The copper tub sits inside. Towels, soaps, oils. Scents. Seems fairly self-evident. A small fuzzy leosylph peers around Geralt's ankle. He nudges it away with his foot.
"Don't use that." He points at a glass bottle at the far end. He does not explain why it should go untouched, but one may guess it's to do with Jaskier, not Geralt. "Eat what you want afterwards. I'll be in the cellar."
Kitchen has a plate of hand pies to spare, and Blake looks...hm. Like shit.
no subject
Why Blake has come here, Geralt chose not to question closely. The man clearly hasn't many places to turn nor, apparently, much by way of coin. And though Geralt does not do charity, denying Blake such a small thing feels akin to throwing a scruffy stray out onto the street without a scrap.
So. Here they are.
Wordlessly, he pushes open the door. The copper tub sits inside. Towels, soaps, oils. Scents. Seems fairly self-evident. A small fuzzy leosylph peers around Geralt's ankle. He nudges it away with his foot.
"Don't use that." He points at a glass bottle at the far end. He does not explain why it should go untouched, but one may guess it's to do with Jaskier, not Geralt. "Eat what you want afterwards. I'll be in the cellar."
Kitchen has a plate of hand pies to spare, and Blake looks...hm. Like shit.
The door shuts.