Geralt leans back against the fence. His weight settles carefully on his right leg. Seeing as the man is inhaling the apple, he figures it's gone to a good cause. Even if he's risking ire from any moody guards. He's reached a stage where it's becoming hard to give a shit. His patience, along with his caution, has steadily worn thin, against his better judgement.

"Too bad. I'd lodge a complaint." He studies Estinien for a moment. He's learned enough through Jaskier, who spoke to—one of them. Not too long ago. The woman with the reptilian scales? It's information he hasn't given as much thought to as he should. So much about the Horizon has thrown him off-kilter. Every time he tries to pull his concentration back, it's like rolling a stone up an unending hill.

"Surprised solitary was all you received," he adds.

Then again, perhaps not. There's a sense they're needed. As a resource of some kind. It doesn't exactly make him feel better, but. People wanting to put him to use for their own ends is nothing new.