Blake will not find a single dull knife in the drawer. As expected, no doubt, considering whose kitchen they're in. Beyond that, there are a couple of wooden spoons (solid and perforated), wooden forks, and not a hell of a lot else—the house of a man who not only cooks the most basic meals but also doesn't come from a world of expanded utensils.

He could help. Normally, he might've done so. But Blake looks at ease doing it alone. So he watches, passing behind Blake only to retrieve a jug of ale. He pours them both a drink without asking, leaving one mug near Blake. The extent of his encouragement.

A soft noise escapes him. "A familiar feeling." The kindest thing he could say about Vesemir's cooking was that he tried. But frankly, keeping them fed in the first place was more than anyone else ever did for them.

"I don't know my father." Barely his mother. Bits and pieces. Most of it blurs together, one hungry day after the next. "She never spoke of him. After a time, I learnt to stop asking."

Which was all right. Geralt doesn't know what happened to his father, whether he left or died or disappeared long before the birth of his son; she would not say. Here and there, he recalls whispers that the man might've been a warrior of a sort. Or a soldier. Nothing special. Does it matter? Probably not. Visenna was the sole presence in his life growing up. Until she wasn't.