[ The inn at the crossroads, a smudge on the map of Velen's backwater swamps, wouldn't be anybody's choice refuge: it's a well, a muddy road, a stable, and a tavern; and the miasma of war has worsened its usual crowd. Playing cards at coarse tables, bandits openly laugh with each other about their hauls, and armed men shoot furtive glances at the door, whispering about who they'll hang first the moment they get the chance.
It's the last place anyone would expect to find a very high-blooded Tevinter scion β in part because it's not far from the newly fuzzy Redanian border, well within reach of witch-hunters and the zealous believers who might tell them about a strange wanderer with an air of magic about him, imagined or not.
The drunken bandits seated across from Dorian's table suspect something, either way. They cast him curious looks, leaning over and murmuring to each other about how foreign he clearly is; where he might be from β what he might have on him, whether he might be worth something to someone.
One of them finally pushes himself up, swaying a little, and says loudly, "Let's ask 'im, hey?" and swaggers boldly toward Dorianβ
βonly to be interrupted by the shadow of a much taller man with two swords over his shoulder, well-armored. Geralt shoots him a cool feline-yellow glance, but says nothing, and leans over Dorian's table to set down two cups of vodka: one for Dorian, one for himself. He sits down at the bench without a word, as though he's been invited.
Sullenly watching them both, weighing his options, the bandit mutters an insult β something with mutant in it β and sits back down.
Geralt takes his cup and leans an elbow on the table, voice low: ]
Tevinter, right? Pretty impressive you made it all the way here without a guide.
[ He lifts his cup toward Dorian in something like a toast, and downs the contents. It's shit vodka, but that's Velen. ]
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It's the last place anyone would expect to find a very high-blooded Tevinter scion β in part because it's not far from the newly fuzzy Redanian border, well within reach of witch-hunters and the zealous believers who might tell them about a strange wanderer with an air of magic about him, imagined or not.
The drunken bandits seated across from Dorian's table suspect something, either way. They cast him curious looks, leaning over and murmuring to each other about how foreign he clearly is; where he might be from β what he might have on him, whether he might be worth something to someone.
One of them finally pushes himself up, swaying a little, and says loudly, "Let's ask 'im, hey?" and swaggers boldly toward Dorianβ
βonly to be interrupted by the shadow of a much taller man with two swords over his shoulder, well-armored. Geralt shoots him a cool feline-yellow glance, but says nothing, and leans over Dorian's table to set down two cups of vodka: one for Dorian, one for himself. He sits down at the bench without a word, as though he's been invited.
Sullenly watching them both, weighing his options, the bandit mutters an insult β something with mutant in it β and sits back down.
Geralt takes his cup and leans an elbow on the table, voice low: ]
Tevinter, right? Pretty impressive you made it all the way here without a guide.
[ He lifts his cup toward Dorian in something like a toast, and downs the contents. It's shit vodka, but that's Velen. ]