From the bottom of the stairs, Ciri can hear something of a commotion up on the landing above. Jaskier's voice, mostly, shouting indistinctly. That, in and of itself, is not entirely unusual. She doesn't think anything of it -- he must be yelling at Geralt, or maybe at Mog, or just at a piece of parchment that isn't making whatever words he wrote on it sound as good as they had in his head.

So when she heads up the stairs, dusty and windswept from a nighttime excursion beyond the city gates, Ciri has every intention of simply ignoring the bard and his excitement, whatever its cause, and heading straight for a bath and her bed.

It's not until she actually opens the door that it registers. There is Jaskier, as expected. Geralt, a tiny bit more of a surprise at this time of day, but not terribly unusual.

And, between them, a figure that takes her a long moment to recognize. Or, rather, to really understand, despite actually recognizing her right away.

Ciri steps inside.

"...Rinwell?"

More than only startled, she sounds... hopeful.