abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

Oh, fuck off.

[Some of them are human! And he has a right amount of energy, thank you, where it comes to what's important. Show him a man off the street who can perform for three hours straight without losing a hint of energy.

Jaskier pushes off a tree and follows, only not running anymore because Geralt isn't. If something's happened to Mog, he trusts his friend would not be so calm.

And it's for good reason. The scene in front of them is fucking stupid.]

Mog! What on earth are you doing, you baffoon? You're not chewing through that! [He's about to step out and scoop the chirping gryphon up when he pauses.] A thrashing? A thrashing what?

[As if in answer, there's a trumpet of a sound in the distance. The curled up beast that has avoided being Mog's breakfast appears to pause as if listening.

Ah. Ah. This is. This is the baby, isn't it?]

[ Jaskier's scolding goes ignored. Geralt's steps are silent as he navigates the uneven ground to where the gryphon is making hissing squawks. First the pigeon, now this. Perhaps he should put Will retrieve wayward pets as part of him job description when searching for a contract.

The baby chaigon rolls into a tree and bounces. Mog creeps closer, as if sensing his chance. Then his wings open and Geralt promptly snatches him up by the scruff of his neck.

That is unmistakably the sound of an adult chaigon coming. He says nothing about it, does not hurry or look back, just tucks the gryphon under one arm and grabs Jaskier by the elbow. They're only dangerous if threatened. Best to leave. He's not looking to fight something he isn't paid for. ]

Come on. [ He leads Jaskier along, Mog chirping. At least these miniature gryphons don't seem to fucking fly. Behind them, the heavy stomping steps grow louder. Fuck, where's Roach? ] Put a damn lead on him next time.

[Jaskier gives a sigh of relief once the Witcher has his hands (delicately, he notices) around the gryphon.] You failed to mention there is a much larger one, presumably, out there.

[It's not said with much worry, though. Once they're along together, he takes the gryphon back and cradles the naughty thing against his chest.]

I'm not putting a leash on him! What is he, a dog? He's much smarter. Aren't you, Mog? [He coos, then recalls he is meant to be disciplining the gryphon, not praising it.] Now, you can't go off on your own hunting things! You're not a bloody dragon, all right?

[Mog gives a chirp-purr, which is equivalent to the most pathetic sound in the world.] Ugh, don't pout. I know you were only trying to help us with breakfast. [He pauses. There's no second trumpet, at least, but now he can certainly hear something large moving.] Probably.

Didn't think I needed to. [ It's a baby; why would its mother not be near? He hands the gryphon over with a sigh.

Right. Breakfast. Which was what Geralt had planned on doing before he was disrupted by a shouting bard and his runaway beast. He supposes they can make do with bread and cheese along the trail. There's an inn not too far from here, one of those middle-of-the-nowhere cabins that offer a resting stop for travellers.

Another trumpet sounds, but the stomping ceases. Seems she found her lost child. He listens while they walk, but the steps do not grow closer.

Should be all right. For now.

He takes apart the signs of their camp when he returns, sweeping ashes into the dirt and breaking down the shelter he built. On the main roads, he's less cautious, but no point in taking chances, either. Roach nudges him as he offers her an apple to crunch on. ] We'll reach the inn by evening. Find a bed for the night.

Excuse me, I haven't had time to update my bestiary! I'll make a note that the rolly bits get quite a big bigger than, say, fox-sized.

[Jaskier lets out a breath. He's never safer than he is when he's with Geralt, but. To be fair, the rolly bit looked rather... cute. And if it was only a wee baby, he'd rather Mog nor Geralt be forced to hurt it or its kin. It likely got lost chasing lizards just as Mog did chasing it.

Mog, by the way, who despite losing his prey and being scruffed, looks very pleased with himself, cradled in Jaskier's arms. Mog stares up at him with softened eyes, his fluffy tail curled around Jaskier's arm. Jaskier sneaks him a blackberry, grown between his fingers. He's getting much better at it, as time goes on. Growing little individual things in an instant. Hardly feeling a pull of the magic on him.

Besides, he's fed Roach tons of magic berries, and she's far from keeling over. So they must be safe for pets.]

Ah. The good old days, sharing a bed stinking of others' sweat and come. Oh, I delight in reliving such memories! [That actually comes out not sarcastic. If anyone is a sucker for nostalgia, it is Jaskier.] And then Aquila tomorrow? If I recall correctly, it's rather near some body of water. Is there a coast to visit? I bloody miss the sight of water after this long in the desert.

[ The rolly bits. Geralt's expression is flat. ] A chaigon.

[ Rolly bits. He shakes his head, adjusting the strap on Roach's saddlebag. He checks his supplies, his weapons, to make sure it's all there. Then he mounts his horse and waits for Jaskier to do the same before they ride off, leaving behind both mother and child stomping about in the woods.

In a few months, he may return to the path and there will be two of them. But unless they bother anyone, he isn't particularly worried.

Mm. Sharing a stinking bed in a shit backwater inn somewhere. Pleasant indeed. He isn't nostalgic the same way Jaskier is, but they are not unwelcome memories. Comforts are not what he gives a damn about. He remembers more the quiet nights by a fire, the candlelight, Jaskier humming a new song while Geralt sharpened his sword, restocked his elixirs. Jaskier helping tend to his wounds despite his annoyed sounds. Picking over a cold supper because he was sleeping off the toxic effects, and Jaskier had saved him a portion of the meal. ]

Mm-hmm. A bay. [ They can visit. It's on the way, anyhow.

Evening falls quickly, the stars in the sky by the time they reach the inn. Dusty, full of cobwebs, but serviceable. The old man behind the counter is kindly enough. Geralt pays him a couple of silvers for the night, as well as a roast pheasant. Some stew. And ale, of course. It isn't crowded and not near the the audience Jaskier had at the Old Public Hall—but he knows the bard will want to perform all the same. He settles back in a corner table, content to watch while Jaskier does so. Mog curls on the seat beside him, tucked under the table and sleeping once more. ]

A chaigon! Of course you already know the local name. Well, I'll make a note of it.

[He sniffs. Excuse him; he's not out here destroying the local wildlife in lieu of spending his time on performing. But, chided or not, when they return to Roach and his own horse he reaches through his bag for a notebook and pen (thank you, Aleksandr), writing down the name as they walk, along with a hasty little sketch of the smaller one. His horse is gentle enough the sway doesn't mess up his lines -- or, honestly, the pen is that good.

A pen! Imagine. No more quills for him. Unless he enjoys the feel of them. (He does.)

That's an idea. Between his performances, he should work on his bestiary. There is only the one in the Horizon he gifted to Julie. He's lost his original copies, but he should recall plenty to recreate it here. Though it wouldn't do much good, considering the differences in the spheres. Should he craft one for this world?

Well. Fuck. Why not? He loves keeping busy. Another way to leave his imprint here.

He leaves the notebook on the table inside their room, however. It's a hobby, nothing more; Jaskier is still quite focused in spreading his name. Now that it's firmly established in Cadens, it's time to spread it further.

So he performs, the little inn rather delighted to have a performance (and even more wonderfully, the old man has heard tale of him!) He plays his songs of the Free Cities and Solvunn, deftly avoiding mention of Thorne in a place with... a smaller stage, so to speak. Once he's paused between songs, downing a pint of ale, he catches a breath by crashing into the table Geralt's at, bumping with a hip for him to make room. The applause still rings through the place.

Staying to listen to him. He always knew.] Enjoying your night? [He gives Mog a gentle scratch between his ears, and he coos.] It's strange how close this place comes to the Continent sometimes. If Mog weren't here, I wouldn't even know the difference.

[Well. Mog, and the pull of magic in him, which he uses during performance for little illusionary spots of light, or birds coming out of his lute during the finale. He has to make it memorable, after all.]

[ He's staying for a drink, thank you. (He stayed to listen.) He splits some bread, picks at it with butter and cheese while he waits for their meal to arrive. He's paid for an hour in the bath available upstairs afterwards. Even a bit off the path out here, running water reaches, though not heated water. Which doesn't matter given the warm spring air. A cool bath sounds perfectly pleasant.

He slips Mog a bit of bread. The gryphon snaps it up, his feathers puffing in pleasure. ]

Hm. [ Yeah. It does feel nearly like home. If they were trapped in space or places with metal carriages zooming about, he'd frankly not know what to think. Encountering strange inventions in a shared plane of the mind is one thing, a curiosity and a novelty he can examine and then leave behind afterwards. The idea of existing in a world full of that shit is...not preferable. ] And your magic. You've been practicing.

[ The birds, the lights. They're small spells, but magic, learned and controlled. Sometimes he still feels a little wonderment at it all—Jaskier, with magic. And yet it suits him. He almost can't imagine his friend without that flutter of colour and lights when he performs anymore, or sprouting plants from the ground as he pleases.

That's the other side of it, isn't it? If they were to return to the Continent, Jaskier's magic would be stripped away. No longer accessible through their proximity to the Singularity. It's yet one more reason this world, it...feels more and more like theirs. ]

[Jaskier gives a little smile towards Mog, petting him down his back. Spoiled. As Jaskier knew he would be, given enough time.

And Geralt hardly complained when Jaskier showed up with him in the first place, tucked into a shoulder bag. A bag full of fluff and fur, and occasionally a snort or something resembling a chirp.

Jaskier flicks his fingers at Geralt, making little sparks fly and dissipate into nothing.] Of course I have. The one time I didn't, I lost it. And... well, let's say I sort of understand Yennefer on that front. What it feels like, now, to lose it.

[Jaskier is the same. It has become so ingrained in him now, after nearly four full seasons. Who would he be if he lost it? Or would nothing have changed at all?] I want to make sure I do what I can to ensure no one can take it away. [His eyes flick up, and he smiles.] Though I suppose we're all at the mercy of the Singularity's whims, aren't we?

[ He recalls that. Jaskier had not exactly told him, but he'd be blind not to notice: wilting plants, rotting food, Jaskier fretting. He had not questioned it at the time, had rather thought Jaskier might approach Yennefer for help, and he'd been right. At the time, it'd made him almost fond, the idea of it. That the two of them might get along a bit more. He's always known Yennefer had a soft spot for Jaskier, despite outward appearances. (It is not so different than himself, in truth.)

Now Jaskier says, I sort of understand Yennefer, and his expression only flickers. It is not understanding he is lacking. Or at least, that isn't how it feels. It is too much of it. Sometimes he wishes there is something he were missing. Something that may make it easier to swallow. Change things. There isn't.

They aren't here for this, though. He's done his best to put it behind him. Nothing has ever been gained from looking back. ]

Mm. Where the flow of Chaos is concerned. But not what we choose to do. [ Some things can't be changed or controlled. He learned that a long time ago. But they've still choices to make. ]

[He should have expected some mention of her to cause a reaction, but he'd brought it up without much thought in it. However, he can read Geralt's expression, as subtle as it is.

He should let it go, but. Those memories are important to him.]

I don't mean because of what she... what she tried to do. I was thinking of the first time I saw her again, in Oxenfurt. I never thought I would see her so frightened. And, frankly, stinky. [What? It sticks with him.] I know what being powerless feels like. But I know the good one can do with power, too.

[And now he feels he does good with it. He can no longer be the Sandpiper, but he can be many things to other people. He can feed them should they grow hungry. He can create life in places devoid of it. And he can send Yennefer a friend when she may have no one else, who sings to her sweet songs and follows her so she is not alone.

He can give Sam a companion that reminds him of home.

No, he cannot imagine being without it again. That is why he trains, why he tempers his emotions from ever letting them swallow his powers again.

Jaskier releases a breath, fond.] Always the optimist, my friend. [He gives him a nudge.] And what do you choose to do next? I'm not against future excursions, of course, and I may need your assistance in my future tour to Libertas, but... beyond that, what will the great White Wolf do to keep himself occupied?

[ Right. Oxenfurt. He's quiet for a moment. Now and again he's thought, what if he'd been there? For her? Would it change anything? He knows better than to dwell on things that can't ever be, and more than that, in the end, his answer is no. He doesn't imagine it would have. Because Jaskier had been there for her. And it had made no difference. ]

Hm. [ They remake themselves as best they can. It's never perfect. But it isn't nothing. They've all shaped themselves anew, one way or another. Geralt would not have chosen to be what he is, and yet. He does not hate where he has found himself. Whether that's because he truly doesn't mind or he's learned to accept things as they are, learned not to drown in the bitter taste of things stolen from him—maybe it isn't important.

He smacks Jaskier lightly on the arm. The day he turns an optimist, that's the day the Singularity melts into a puddle. ]

Is this not enough? [ He glances sidelong at his friend. ] I intend to see what lies in the heart of the desert.

[ He's always travelled roads unknown. The continent is not open for him to wander across, but the desert is vast. He can at least start there. It's a matter of work, of seeing what he can learn before it surprises them—but he's curious, as well. He supposes...at the end of the day, he likes being in the midst of that. His horse, a hard trail that forces him to put all of his focus on traversing it. His purpose lies there as much as it does with Ciri, with keeping everyone he knows safe. ]

[The smack hardly deters him at all. If anything, he snorts a laugh.] Isn't that for you to decide?

[For him, really, it is. Enough. He's earned his name again. (Of course, no where near what it was before, but. Still. He's working on it. Isn't having more work ahead of him a net positive?) This world is... different, but that's good. He has time to learn of all these neew places. And magic, of course. There is not a lifetime long enough for him to learn all the magic this place provides.

Well. A sorceress's lifetime, maybe.

And on that note, he no longer worries (as much) for the fate of his muses. They are still alive and well with him now, despite what he's seen. The horrors. And the strange new ones Abraxas can offer.

He is still here. And he can still sing.

Jaskier raises a brow. Well. They can't all be artists.] A lot of heat and sand, I imagine. What else could there be? [He tips his head.] Well, perhaps some ruins, actually. There's evidence as we work on the hall that the Free Cities put quite some effort into covering their Thornean roots. I wouldn't be surprised to find they demolished other architectural marvels that could tie them to Thorne.

[ No. They can't all be artists. He considers what Jaskier is saying as the food arrives at their table. He pushes a plate towards Jaskier. ]

It is under conflict. [ The area, he means. He doesn't often see Thornean agents as much as Cadens' soldiers, but that's in part because he hasn't gone as far as near Thorne's borders. Nor will he. He isn't interested in pushing his luck. He escaped them twice already. ] There may be something.

[ He isn't sure. He expects to find at most the ruins Jaskier mentions. Perhaps a new monster nest or two. But just in case anything happens, he wants to be certain he knows exactly what's out there.

He tears a chunk of bread, pops it in his mouth. It's casual, obviously prodding, when he says, ] Will you miss me?

Edited 2022-04-28 06:04 (UTC)

Oh, there will be something, I guarantee it. What remains to be seen is whether it's something interesting, or otherwise.

[And interesting could really encompass so many things. Still, if you ask him, it's likely to be sand and more monsters. Maybe more of the large lizard-rats. Er. What were they called again? He wrote it down somewhere earlier.

Jaskier moves closer, propping his boots on a chair as he mirrors Geralt, tearing bread apart after smearing it with butter.

The bard looks at him. Only one of us was left on a mountain, is what comes to mind first, but it sounds far more bitter than Jaskier really is anymore.

Instead, he snorts, and he steals a bit of beans right from Geralt's plate.] Hardly. No one to talk my ear off for a few weeks, finally. The silence I so deeply crave, yet hardly receive.

[It hardly needs saying that he will find Geralt simply to kill him if he doesn't keep in some kind of touch. Years ago he'd never even think twice. Now, he does not think he could handle reliving that last winter.] Ciri's going somewhere else, then? Not alongside you?

[ He hums. No, it need not be said. He no longer disappears without a word, without contact. When they reach out to him, he answers, even in the middle of a hunt. He doesn't want to worry any of them. Jaskier still stares at the scars on his back sometimes.

He glances up, pushes some of his beans towards Jaskier with the automatic motion of a man who has long accepted his food will be stolen. He takes the dried dates in return—more of an exotic fruit back home, but common in the Free Cities. ]

She only returned from a trip. And she's found her own hunting partners. [ Apparently. She did try to deny it, but Geralt would not be surprised to discover she invited Sephiroth again at some point.

Besides, they don't often hunt together regardless. Ciri likes to have her own contracts, her own reputation, and he wants that for her, too. She's grown. She's more than capable. It's good. He feels the loss of the years between them, those missing pieces he can never get back (unless the Singularity sees fit to grant them with another burst), but at the same time, it isn't bad either, to see the woman she's become and know that he had a hand in it. ]

[Jaskier, least, gives Geralt's hand a customary smack. Just to remind him who's boss.]

Ah, so you've accepted your little girl has grown up. [He kids. It's not as if Geralt's ever went into a full dad-ish energy, but it certainly lingers around him. Jaskier likes to think he sometimes catches this softness in Geralt's eyes when he listens to her -- when it's just the three of them, or Rinwell joins in, spreading out a deck of cards or knucklebones. When Ciri grins as she wins, Rinwell reading and Hootle hooting and pecking at Jaskier's hair.

The moments, he thinks, even a Witcher can settle down for.]

Oooooh. Partners. She hasn't gone into detail on this to me. Have you vetted them? Of course, we can't have any partners around Ciri who aren't, how to say, up to par.

For hunting, of course.

[Give Jaskier a bit of ale, the memories of the Path, and he's back to ribbing Geralt endlessly. Even Mog seems to join in, stretching until his paws land on Geralt's leg and tug gently at his pants.]

[ He casts a look at Jaskier. Undeterred, he takes another date off Jaskier's plate. ]

It's Sephiroth. [ Geralt is only familiar with the man through their time on the roof with a bird and a cat. He would not go so far as to say he likes Sephiroth, but he doesn't dislike him. Which means he finds his presence acceptable.

He frowns at Mog. Geralt picks him up and puts him a few inches away. The last thing he needs are claw marks in his leathers. ]

I gave that little bird to Viktor, by the way. [ The mechanical one, he means. The instructions did not specify how the security aspect of the bird was to work. Did it scream loudly? Did it launch itself at the intruder's face? Hard to tell. Geralt decided Viktor could do as he liked with the bird so long as he promised to build Geralt something functionally similar should its features prove useful. ]

Edited 2022-05-01 05:30 (UTC)

[Jaskier goes still, his eyebrows vacating his face to climbs towards the heavens.]

It's... it's Sephiroth? The building-climber? Stiff as a board, floats like a feather? That Sephiroth?

[Okay, he needn't preface the question with anything, considering he's rather sure there is no way on earth Cadens contains more than one man named Sephiroth. Who else would really want to live with that name? It's so overly complicated.

Jaskier coos at Mog, who gives a rather disgruntled peeping mew at being moved. Eventually the gryphon simply paws at his lap until Jaskier scoops him up, rocking him back and forth like a baby. The gryphon loves it, his back paws curled up on top of his belly.]

The mechanic one? Actually, that doesn't surprise me. I'm betting he'll love to tinker with it. I will miss a little mate for my bird. But... what does he mean to do with it? I hope he's not gone the way of Aleksander and become a bird man.

Edited 2022-05-02 06:42 (UTC)

[ Geralt makes a noncommittal gesture with his hand. He will not judge Sephiroth based on their first encounter, given that entire incident was fucking absurd and not one of them demonstrated their best. Except Jaskier, perhaps, by virtue of him only crafting two decoy birds and providing enlightening commentary the rest of the time.

In any case, Ciri tolerated the company of very few while she's hunting. So consider him curious from here on out.

There is a near imperceptible shake of his head as he watches his friend cradle his little pet. ] Fuck if I know. I told him to do as he will so long as I receive anything useful he uncovers.

[ The man was handing out those birds with not much concern, so Geralt imagines it either isn't anything particularly dangerous or Aleksander is someone who doesn't give a shit if one of them accidentally lost a hand. The latter seems more likely. Which is why he's given Viktor the bird to examine rather than setting it off himself. ]

[Jaskier does not hesitate to judge based on first impressions, and Sephiroth is this: hot and strange. Though now that he thinks about it, he wonders if that might eb enough for Ciri. She's rather strange herself, and if anything, he can at least call Sephiroth even-tempered.

Hmm. Maybe it's not... a terrible choice. He adores Ciri, but she is not even-tempered.]

Huh. [Is all he says out loud. No, wait. He adds:] Suppose it could work.

[He'll need to ask for some stories. Perhaps even sneak out on a hunt -- you know, as a courtesy. A courtesy to his craft. He is rather curious about how Ciri hunts, after all, trained by Geralt.

Jaskier wiggles his brows.] Ooh. If you're lucky, maybe it will be something rather fun. I bet Viktor's the type.

[No, he does not elaborate.]

[ A scrunch of his brow and a look greets that remark. It's a security device. What sort of fun is Jaskier expecting out of it?

No. Don't answer that. ]

Weapon might do. [ Geralt does not add that Viktor is not any type except the gravely ill type. It's neither of their business and he's pretty damn certain Viktor does not want him to know. He only knows because he can smell it. (Also, he's got eyes.) Which isn't something Geralt can help, but he can at least afford the man a semblance of privacy.

They finish supper; Geralt feeds a scrap of bone to Mog when he thinks Jaskier isn't looking. The room is small, the blankets scratchy, but he sleeps easier than he has in some time. Come sunrise, he rouses Jaskier. Packs up their horses and rides out. They camp a couple more days, cross the beach that he decides they can stop by on their way home, and eventually land in the bustling city of Aquila. It isn't bigger than Cadens, but it feels so. Maybe it's the open market square, the sculptures, the atmosphere. The clothes are, indeed, more colourful, more adorned here. He's never been to Aquila proper—not to explore or visit. Only made quick stops by the outskirts for a contract.

He does have the delivery to make. A short walk takes care of that, package handed to the shopkeeper. Then: hm. What now? Inexplicably, he finds himself lost. It is not a feeling he's used to. But Geralt tends to go places for a purpose. Which he's accomplished. This is normally the part where he would turn around and go home, or find an inn to rest in before the next day's ride.

Accompanying Jaskier is the easiest solution. So that's what he does, following his friend where he might go. The bard needs someone to look after him, in any case. ]

Edited 2022-05-06 15:15 (UTC)

A weapon! Ugh, you're so boring. Just because the man looks like shit doesn't mean he can't have fun.

[Though, after their meetings, maybe Viktor should not be described as "fun." Perhaps "fun, as heard from two rooms away at three in the morning, with a vague smell in the air."

Jaskier doesn't see this time, so Geralt is lucky, only because it would be more fuel for the bard to tease him about loving the gryphon. Clearly he does, the bastard's already built a bed for the catbird, without even being asked. Once their meal's paid on his coin -- as comes naturally -- he scoops up a yawning gryphon and sets him on a blanket on the floor, curling up in bed himself.

He wakes already clinging to Geralt, as is usual. Whatever's in bed with him gets attached to. Unsurprisingly, Mog's already in the window, tail swinging, watching the morning birds chirp in a branch right outside. Jaskier scoops him into his bag, and off they go.

It's the way it's always been with them. Easy, comfortable.

Luckily, going to a new city is always entertaining. Jaskier marvels he's lived here so long and never visited, but... honestly, it's been plenty of working making a name for himself in one city, all over again.

So what does he do?

Shopping. Obviously. When Geralt finds him, he's already wearing a new hat (absolutely fetching, of course) and has a leather pouch in his hand, a gift for Ciri.] Look at this place! Already a bit busier than the Cadens market's ever been.

[ Geralt identifies the hat before he identifies Jaskier. (That isn't true. He can smell him in the crowd before he ever sees the peek of a feather.) He falls into step beside his friend. ]

Someone tried to sell me a glowing jelly in jar. [ He peers at the stalls as he passes by. The market is so fucking big, he's not certain he can tell where it even ends. Already, he can recognize goods from places outside the Free Cities—imports from Solvunn, the wine and cheese. He drops a few coins for the goat cheese, because of course he does.

As much as he isn't interested in shopping, there's one thing on his mind. As they walk, Geralt eventually stops: pausing over a silversmith's wares. Not weapons, though. Jewelry. Rings and pendants and bracelets.

Hm.

Ciri was born around Belleteyn, wasn't she? (So was Yennefer.) It's upcoming. Gifts rarely featured in his life on the Continent. Since he's been in Abraxas, though, people have...given him. Things. For occasions. And he knows he wants to mark Ciri's special day. He has something in mind. He just isn't certain if she'll like it.

Jaskier will find him lingering around where several jewellery makers have congregated. Some possess gaudy gems and shiny stones, but Geralt isn't interested in gems. He's searching for a skilled smith who can engrave and cast silver. ]

And you didn't buy it? But what fun!

[He grins at Geralt, knowing full well the man is hardly the sort to be swindled, especially by jelly, glowing or not. (A shame, though. It would have been fun to put next to his lamp.) Geralt wanders off again as Jaskier buys a bottle of wine, a rich, deep red he expects will go rather well with their next rabbit roast. In his hands are small trinkets for others: a small figurine of a horse for Rinwell, and a horror novel for Hector. The leather bag full of hand-painted cards for Ciri.

Then he finds Geralt again, peering around his shoulder.] I know you aren't looking for jewelry. Though if you are, I would love something with a yellow stone.

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