Their home has few visitors, and even fewer Geralt trusts to wander about freely. He doubts Blake is here to cause trouble; he actually isn't sure why Blake is here beyond the man's claim to need a wash. Which. Perhaps that is all, but he's starting to learn it's never so straightforward with Blake.

The door to the lab is left open, the strong smell of herbs drifting past the threshold. Blake's footsteps approach as Geralt empties a reddish powder into a small vial.

Blake looks better. Not the best, but better.

"You smell like the bard," he remarks.

He moves his sword out of the way—left unsheathed for once. The bejewelled phoenix affixed to the hilt glints in the lamplight. With a crackle of heat from his palm, he ignites a flame beneath the glass gourd, filled with a cloudy liquid.

"You can't see shit out there." His eyes do not leave his task. Gently, the alembic begins to drip. "Stay until the dust clears."

There have been small breaks in the storm, but right now, it's whipping into a frenzy.