[ Getting out of the city is, undeniably, a good part of the reason Geralt's out here with Sam. It's difficult to put into words, for anyone who hasn't spent their entire life roaming, but even as large as Cadens is, Geralt still feels locked down—like he can't stray too far, in case something else goes wrong. And he knows he's reaching the point where he can probably venture out again—thought communication across distances helps with that—he's been reluctant nonetheless for the past week. So. Taking Sam out for a hunt less than a day's ride away is a decent option.
Besides, Sam's company has grown familiar now. Simple. It happened when he wasn't looking, when he realized he's come to trust the man with what he does not often trust with others. Geralt's still deciding how he feels about it, if he should feel anything. For now, it means that despite his preference for solitude, Sam's presence no longer feels like an intrusion.
Awful fucking jokes and all. Geralt sighs, casting Sam a look, but his gaze loses a bit of its edge. ] You've been spending too much time with the bard.
[ Sam's posture isn't at ease with the sword as he should be. Geralt's not too concerned; it'll change with time. He does move, though, without hesitating, which is all that matters. Geralt doesn't so much block as he steps out of the way—and for as long as Sam keeps pressing forward, he'll continue to do so, ducking and weaving around each swing. Sam isn't necessarily slow; it's more that he can only be so fast compared to a Witcher. But Geralt's watching every movement, taking it in, and he thinks he's right to feel like Sam has the potential to pick things up quick enough.
Wherever the next blow comes from, Geralt will—for the first time—reach out to catch Sam's arm or wrist, or maybe even the dull blade itself if it gets that close. There's something close to approval in his expression. ] Not bad.
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Besides, Sam's company has grown familiar now. Simple. It happened when he wasn't looking, when he realized he's come to trust the man with what he does not often trust with others. Geralt's still deciding how he feels about it, if he should feel anything. For now, it means that despite his preference for solitude, Sam's presence no longer feels like an intrusion.
Awful fucking jokes and all. Geralt sighs, casting Sam a look, but his gaze loses a bit of its edge. ] You've been spending too much time with the bard.
[ Sam's posture isn't at ease with the sword as he should be. Geralt's not too concerned; it'll change with time. He does move, though, without hesitating, which is all that matters. Geralt doesn't so much block as he steps out of the way—and for as long as Sam keeps pressing forward, he'll continue to do so, ducking and weaving around each swing. Sam isn't necessarily slow; it's more that he can only be so fast compared to a Witcher. But Geralt's watching every movement, taking it in, and he thinks he's right to feel like Sam has the potential to pick things up quick enough.
Wherever the next blow comes from, Geralt will—for the first time—reach out to catch Sam's arm or wrist, or maybe even the dull blade itself if it gets that close. There's something close to approval in his expression. ] Not bad.