[ sam's glad he grabbed the jacket, even if - horizon and all - he probably could have bundled up a little more at any given moment. still, even with the chill, the room still carries enough warmth with it that he's not too bothered as he lets his eyes wander, as geralt lets him look without much direction or guard.

( that probably says more than anything, too, but sam's learned to take it as they come - the moments geralt feels like opening up, the times geralt doesn't feel as though he needs to hide it. to brush it off. )

it's geralt's quiet I couldn't that has sam's attention turning back to the witcher, hands in the pockets of his jacket, waiting for anything else. when geralt makes it obvious there won't be any, sam kind of shakes his head, walking over to the table that geralt's settled on top of and settling in the space a little further down. ]

No, they didn't really give you the choice. [ it's all things he's put together, snippets of what geralt has told him and what he's seen for himself. the tension whenever sam would bring up his parents, the comments about how young they were when the trials started. it eats away at the lining of sam's stomach, but knowing how geralt feels about being pitied, sam does his best not to let it show.

instead, he keeps looking. keeps taking it in. the cracks in the walls, the broken ceiling beams, the holes letting in the snow. it's not exactly comforting, and yet somehow even still... ] That what the bones are about? [ a glance to his side, to geralt, with a small smirk before he keeps looking around. ] And here I just thought you liked being super goth. [ it's one of those moments that sam realizes too late that geralt probably has. no idea what he's talking about, so he moves on. ]

How long ago was that? The mob.