( He shakes his head slowly — not in denial, just an automatic gesture of fatigue. Frustration, maybe, at the explanation he's about to give. He settles his bad leg out long, lifts the other knee, and rests his flask-holding elbow on it. Apparently he's temporarily claimed it, sorry Geralt. He can still taste ashes, his throat still burns. Not that the water's gonna do much to fix it at his point. )

Couple of douchebags pulled one over on us.

( He rasps, gesturing vaguely with the flask. )

Killed half, then one of 'em chucked in a bomb. Blasted her out right before it went off and brought part of the damn building down.

( Which is glossing over, like, fifty percent of the details — but they don't really matter. That's the summary, and it's punctuated by a conservative drink, to try and space out what's left of the contents. )