Jo doesn't answer, but she doesn't dither about collecting everything she has with her. Geralt's lucky in this instance: she isn't in Libertas already and isn't in the middle of sword practice; she'd been halfway through catching a meal. But food can wait compared to the topic, which tangles a weight around her neck and ribs as she situates her sword and grabs the small satchel of holding.
She doesn't need directions. She hadn't lied to Ciri three months back when she said she was mapping and memorizing the streets. She's never been in it, but she has the weathered, batter sign of the place in her mind, and where off that is, within having just read it. It's a bit of a walk, but she's direct and focused enough that shop owners she might usually talk to are briskly walked by without so much as a nod.
If there's some judgment for the look of the place, it's not about its location or clientele. It's more about the bones of the building. There isn't quite as much stepping in. Ragtag bunches of the kind found in the black were her whole life's bread and butter. Her copper gaze shifts over them all until it finds Geralt, but her expression doesn't turn any specific way when she heads for the open seat next to him, sliding into it without any fanfare or even a wave to the barkeep.
Jo's first reaction, even though she's come this far for good reason, is the want to snap her mouth shut, to not say anything; disparaging family not-to-family is a rule one doesn't break. Except. Whatever they are, Geralt's important enough Dean would have left over him; whatever they are, it's important enough that Geralt contacted her of all people, because he's worried about Dean. Whatever she is or isn't adjacent to either of those, she's not blind.
"Yeah." Jo nods stiffly, pushing past thorns for a middle somewhere between those. "He's--" Does it feel like a betrayal? Maybe. But, also, fuck her, but it's nice not to be one of only two people to notice in-house, and it being noticed outside the Bar and the Bunker, well, that's another point in the problem column. She settles for: "It's like he's looking for fights where there aren't any."
no subject
She doesn't need directions. She hadn't lied to Ciri three months back when she said she was mapping and memorizing the streets. She's never been in it, but she has the weathered, batter sign of the place in her mind, and where off that is, within having just read it. It's a bit of a walk, but she's direct and focused enough that shop owners she might usually talk to are briskly walked by without so much as a nod.
If there's some judgment for the look of the place, it's not about its location or clientele. It's more about the bones of the building. There isn't quite as much stepping in. Ragtag bunches of the kind found in the black were her whole life's bread and butter. Her copper gaze shifts over them all until it finds Geralt, but her expression doesn't turn any specific way when she heads for the open seat next to him, sliding into it without any fanfare or even a wave to the barkeep.
Jo's first reaction, even though she's come this far for good reason, is the want to snap her mouth shut, to not say anything; disparaging family not-to-family is a rule one doesn't break. Except. Whatever they are, Geralt's important enough Dean would have left over him; whatever they are, it's important enough that Geralt contacted her of all people, because he's worried about Dean. Whatever she is or isn't adjacent to either of those, she's not blind.
"Yeah." Jo nods stiffly, pushing past thorns for a middle somewhere between those. "He's--" Does it feel like a betrayal? Maybe. But, also, fuck her, but it's nice not to be one of only two people to notice in-house, and it being noticed outside the Bar and the Bunker, well, that's another point in the problem column. She settles for: "It's like he's looking for fights where there aren't any."