[ Geralt does not consider himself a man especially affected by how those around feel (tries not to be), but that doesn't mean he's not learned to read another with the sort of acute perception of one who uses it to survive. The tension is sharp, Sam distracted, eyes wide, and he suspects it isn't to do with the bleeding on his head.
He withdraws his hand and does not offer it again.
No. Nothing lethal. Nearly was, though. He delves silently into his saddlebag for the strips of cloth he never leaves without. Were they in the city, he'd be concerned about the attention. They aren't. They're far out, the nearest outpost is on the other end of the desert—and this is where the oustrice nest. They will scavenge the bodies. Roving brigands who kill for supplies and scant bags of coin will be missed by no one. He doesn't like what happened, but he won't waste time on it any further, either.
He pushes the bandages into Sam's hands, since he's not about to stand here waiting for Sam to come around and take them from him. ] Wrap that up. We need to go.
[ He doesn't mean to be cold. He isn't, exactly. There's still a furrow in his brows, as he looks Sam over. Sam's injured and that was too damn close. He's just—not interested in being scrutinized, which Sam has a habit of doing. He is equally uninterested in pushing help on someone when it will only be rejected. It doesn't matter. He can't say he expected much different. (Except he had, a little, in the smallest part of him.) ]
no subject
He withdraws his hand and does not offer it again.
No. Nothing lethal. Nearly was, though. He delves silently into his saddlebag for the strips of cloth he never leaves without. Were they in the city, he'd be concerned about the attention. They aren't. They're far out, the nearest outpost is on the other end of the desert—and this is where the oustrice nest. They will scavenge the bodies. Roving brigands who kill for supplies and scant bags of coin will be missed by no one. He doesn't like what happened, but he won't waste time on it any further, either.
He pushes the bandages into Sam's hands, since he's not about to stand here waiting for Sam to come around and take them from him. ] Wrap that up. We need to go.
[ He doesn't mean to be cold. He isn't, exactly. There's still a furrow in his brows, as he looks Sam over. Sam's injured and that was too damn close. He's just—not interested in being scrutinized, which Sam has a habit of doing. He is equally uninterested in pushing help on someone when it will only be rejected. It doesn't matter. He can't say he expected much different. (Except he had, a little, in the smallest part of him.) ]