[ Doesn't he know. Not that Geralt has any room to talk for himself. There's a level of respect between the two of them, that they do not push, but Geralt also knows if pushing is unlikely to get either of them anywhere.
And where it counts, Sam tends to be on the same page. Like now, where Geralt doesn't question whether or not Sam will follow him or whether Sam will understand not to say or do anything. Common brigands are not difficult to deal with, but dealing with them can make things difficult, and that's not something either of them need right now. He's hoping they'll be in a good mood—drunk on whoever they've killed and pillaged before this, more eager to dig into their spoils than bother with two men and a lone horse. So all he does is continue to pack up, adjusting Roach's saddle while he keeps in reach of his sword—making as though they're in the process of leaving. Which isn't untrue. If he and Sam can hop on Roach and ride out of here without incident, that's all he wants.
So of course it isn't what he gets. Where Sam might be looking, Geralt is not; his back is turned altogether, but it's clear he's listening. The footsteps that approach are not what concern him. It's that they slow, and eventually stop. Fuck.
Up close, the blood is especially strong. Not entirely fresh; not old, either. Drying. A few hours instead of days. He turns around and counts four of them, armed with the sort of rough, brutish weapons meant more to frighten than to kill efficiently. His fingers curl loosely around the mare's reins. It's hard to tell whether they're seeking to rob or simply cause trouble. ]
no subject
And where it counts, Sam tends to be on the same page. Like now, where Geralt doesn't question whether or not Sam will follow him or whether Sam will understand not to say or do anything. Common brigands are not difficult to deal with, but dealing with them can make things difficult, and that's not something either of them need right now. He's hoping they'll be in a good mood—drunk on whoever they've killed and pillaged before this, more eager to dig into their spoils than bother with two men and a lone horse. So all he does is continue to pack up, adjusting Roach's saddle while he keeps in reach of his sword—making as though they're in the process of leaving. Which isn't untrue. If he and Sam can hop on Roach and ride out of here without incident, that's all he wants.
So of course it isn't what he gets. Where Sam might be looking, Geralt is not; his back is turned altogether, but it's clear he's listening. The footsteps that approach are not what concern him. It's that they slow, and eventually stop. Fuck.
Up close, the blood is especially strong. Not entirely fresh; not old, either. Drying. A few hours instead of days. He turns around and counts four of them, armed with the sort of rough, brutish weapons meant more to frighten than to kill efficiently. His fingers curl loosely around the mare's reins. It's hard to tell whether they're seeking to rob or simply cause trouble. ]
We're just on our way.