John contemplates that thought for a long moment, as he lets the swaying movement of the horse beneath him and the warmth of Geralt's back lull him into a sense of peace and calm at last. After all the danger he had been in, these past few days, these past few months, finding himself here at Geralt's side he finally feels as though he can breathe at last.

It is odd to realize how implicitly he trusts the other man. How, unspoken, he knows that now he is here, he knows that he is safe. John is a grown man and he is quite used to being on his own and seeing to his own protection, and yet. Having Geralt at his back is a comfort he cannot put into words. Perhaps because he was never quite so alone as he found himself in Thorne. Made all the more apparent with the knowledge of those he did care for, spread across the other territories of the land.

It is true, John supposes. They are all strays here, in one way or another. Lost, or abandoned, far, far from home.

"I had a little dog, once," John says, apropos of nothing, in that way a person does when they grow tired and their minds begin to wander. "Roscoe. A gift from a friend." The only creature John supposes he could ever claim to have called a 'pet'. John smiles fondly, thinking back on the first appearance of the tiny, long-nosed black puppy and its stumpy little legs and quick, pink little tongue. "I do not suppose you have made the acquaintance of Gustav?"