Other than his conversation with Himeka, he's frankly given little thought to Estinien. A million fucking things have happened. The last on his mind is a one-off barbed exchange. It's nothing about Estinien, really. More that Geralt has spent most the majority of his life with people threatening him or trying to fight him and it all sort of gets swept aside after the thousandth time. He'd not heard from the elf nor seen him since that exchange, and that was good enough for him.
Except he's seeing him now, so. He's willing to get out of the way if Estinien wants; he's not here to start anything. But it seems Estinien has gotten over his shit, at least outwardly. For what reason, Geralt doesn't know. If there's no problem at the moment, though, then Geralt has no interest in making one. He's too damn old for grudges.
"Mm. Got tired of people bumping shoulders." Solvunn is undoubtedly less filled to the brim, but Cadens? He'd kill for some breathing room as of late.
The last of the berries gone, Geralt straightens up gingerly. He's never looked especially put together, but there's a roughness to him that hadn't been there before—torn nails, marks healing up his forearms and just under where the medallion rests against his chest. The worst of it is hidden, though.
He eyes Estinien, contemplating. He may not know for certain what could have changed—Himeka, time, a strange dream, who the fuck can say?—but he hazards a guess. He knows Jaskier spoke to damn near everyone he could think of when Geralt vanished. "You spoke to the bard."
no subject
Except he's seeing him now, so. He's willing to get out of the way if Estinien wants; he's not here to start anything. But it seems Estinien has gotten over his shit, at least outwardly. For what reason, Geralt doesn't know. If there's no problem at the moment, though, then Geralt has no interest in making one. He's too damn old for grudges.
"Mm. Got tired of people bumping shoulders." Solvunn is undoubtedly less filled to the brim, but Cadens? He'd kill for some breathing room as of late.
The last of the berries gone, Geralt straightens up gingerly. He's never looked especially put together, but there's a roughness to him that hadn't been there before—torn nails, marks healing up his forearms and just under where the medallion rests against his chest. The worst of it is hidden, though.
He eyes Estinien, contemplating. He may not know for certain what could have changed—Himeka, time, a strange dream, who the fuck can say?—but he hazards a guess. He knows Jaskier spoke to damn near everyone he could think of when Geralt vanished. "You spoke to the bard."