Mm. Geralt's eyes flick upwards. Blake said it, not him.

He looks back down. "Sword oil. I had a blacksmith who helped with enchantments before he vanished, but back home...this was how we did it."

No spells, only alchemy. The problem is the lack of ingredients, but he's beginning to find substitutes. He's experimenting with a corrosive coating, something that lets him cut through armoured monsters with fewer risks and less effort. He's a little tired of aiming for the narrow strip along the underbelly and nearly losing his fingers for it every time.

Besides, he hates it when his blade bounces off the thick carapace.

Blake's waiting hands receive a mortar and pestle. He drops a large scorpion tail into the stone bowl with no instruction. A mortar and pestle is for one thing and one thing only; he assumes Blake can put it together. Does he need the help? No, but he can't say he minds an extra hand. If Blake is staying, he may as well make himself useful.

"Don't taste it," Geralt adds, deadpan.