[ Fresh off being accosted by children and flowers is how Geralt is found inside the goat pen, floral crown perched on his head. For all that he trusts any of these places very little, Solvunn is the most familiar to him: simple, quiet, not drowning in magicks or advancements of science. His reasons for being in the Free Cities are not because he likes it there, even if it's. Serviceable. No shortage of things to kill.
Not that the emphasis on the old gods bode well here. He's no stranger to temples built around a goddess or two, stories told—but he's also been around long enough to understand tight-knit communities with an abundance of god worship and cautionary tales can mean something darker lurks underneath.
Despite the goats milling about, Geralt's attention appears to be a bit elsewhere, as though he's listening to a conversation only he can overhear: a group of children, giggling and singing a song a off by the shrine. A song he swears carries the familiar touch of a certain bard. Because of course.
Then a baby goat starts to chew on his hair and Geralt sighs. He tugs the animal free, nudging it in the direction of the pellets in the hand of a woman nearby. ] Go eat that.
b.
Not that the emphasis on the old gods bode well here. He's no stranger to temples built around a goddess or two, stories told—but he's also been around long enough to understand tight-knit communities with an abundance of god worship and cautionary tales can mean something darker lurks underneath.
Despite the goats milling about, Geralt's attention appears to be a bit elsewhere, as though he's listening to a conversation only he can overhear: a group of children, giggling and singing a song a off by the shrine. A song he swears carries the familiar touch of a certain bard. Because of course.
Then a baby goat starts to chew on his hair and Geralt sighs. He tugs the animal free, nudging it in the direction of the pellets in the hand of a woman nearby. ] Go eat that.