[ Geralt's changed outfits perhaps three times in a century. He's a creature of habit and old comforts. His only contact with fashion is when Jaskier shows him some new doublet or other, which Geralt acknowledges maybe half the time at best. It means he mostly just watches and waits as Julie mumble to herself while she rectifies whatever wrong she's identified in Nadine's choices. The difference in shape is minimal to him—they're glasses—but Julie seems pleased.
He takes the jacket from her, one eyebrow raised in intrigue. Hm. The embroidered medallion is more than his typical—not a difficult threshold to reach considering his typical is plain fucking black—but Geralt isn't resistant to other appearances. He simply doesn't give enough of a shit to make these changes on his own. Lately though, between Julie and Jaskier, he's acquired almost something of a wardrobe inside and outside the Horizon.
Almost. If one squints. He's a work in progress. ]
And what culture is that?
[ This entire thing is novel to him, in large part because he expected the bike itself to be all there is to it. Apparently not. ]
no subject
He takes the jacket from her, one eyebrow raised in intrigue. Hm. The embroidered medallion is more than his typical—not a difficult threshold to reach considering his typical is plain fucking black—but Geralt isn't resistant to other appearances. He simply doesn't give enough of a shit to make these changes on his own. Lately though, between Julie and Jaskier, he's acquired almost something of a wardrobe inside and outside the Horizon.
Almost. If one squints. He's a work in progress. ]
And what culture is that?
[ This entire thing is novel to him, in large part because he expected the bike itself to be all there is to it. Apparently not. ]