[He can't help but let escape another laugh at the woman calling Ciri something as absurd as babydoll -- and yet somehow, in her lilting accent, it simply flows out as natural as anything. A gentle sort of nickname. Affectionate.

He does not need to ask Geralt's state of mind to know he must be utterly fucking perplexed by this. That these women would house and heal him, without him offering anything in return. And now he watches Ciri, Geralt's daughter by all accounts -- hers and Destiny's own -- holding her tight.

There really is a chance for things to right themselves again.]

Yes, well. [He glances at Ciri, who is not very capable of going to her own bed right now. The others needn't know. With how wound up he feels himself, sleep is out of reach. But there's plenty he can do to get his hands busy.] We really should, Ciri. Both of us. It's been... an unending few weeks.

[He wipes the existence of his drink away to clean up.] Though staying here and getting drunk is quite an appetizing idea, we have preparations to make.