People ask less questions when you have a drink. It's a universal Ginia has found in her world and she's pleased it works in this new world too. As long as she has a bottle and a plate with some food, people are content to let her drift in and out of conversation groups or hang on the balcony and people watch.
It's certainly a place for people watching. From the woman changing her hair color at will as she chats with a group of teenagers to the willowy man wrangling two young children, there's certainly a crowd of people. Happy people, mostly. There are a few also warily watching the people, keeping to the outskirts. Much like her.
She wouldn't classify herself as unhappy though, just... still looking for her footing. It's a lot to throw on someone; free housing, money, transportation. The promise of safety and peace. They're impossible things to promise someone, not without strings attached. Ginia is still looking for those strings three weeks in.
The people here know how to throw a party though, that's for sure. The penthouse apartment is pretty nice, the food and drinks are solid. Ginia sighs as she works through the last of her hard seltzer drink. All right, back to the kitchen for another drink. Maybe new people have shown up since she was hanging out on the balcony.
Being a father is not something that crossed Geralt's mind much before. He's known for a long time that the mutations have made him sterile, and so, like many other things that witchers sacrfice for their trade, it just left his mind. A stray thought to touch and let go when he passes through villages.
But, watching Ciri in the yard with Vesemir, he thinks, maybe, he could have been a father. The girl is not his, though with her ashen hair she could pass for it. Must come from her mother's side; Emyhr's dark looks don't seem to have caught on at all in her. He can hear Vesemir's steady catching as the girl goes through the same drills Geralt learned at her age. Block, evade, spin, slash, lunge. She's getting faster on her feet, learning to leave her weight on the balls rather than in the heel.
Almost funny now to think how hard he'd tried to leave her behind. Ciri heard stories about the white-haired witcher that would come for her someday and she'd taken it to heart. But witcher schools didn't take girls and, though she was payment, in a way, for lifting a curse on her father, Geralt was content to let the debt go. But after finding himself saving her twice, it seemed fate had other ideas.
Ciri will never be able to take the Trials, but that doesn't mean they can't train her in everything else. Lore, swordcraft, alchemy that won't kill her to use. The Path might never be hers to walk, but she would go back out into the world able to do so. She is still the daughter of an emperor and Geralt cannot help but think her father might, someday, want her back. He's surprised that the thought bothers him. Like it or not, he's become fond of the girl. Even Vesemir softened around her outside of the training regimen.
"Geralt!" Vesemir always could be heard across the keep. "Come take charge of your ward! I've had enough."
Geralt laughed quietly and pushed himself up from the scaffolding he'd perched on to watch. Either Ciri had beaten Vesemir in a game of wits or she was genuinely tired; whatever it was, it was probably best to stop her for the day. Otherwise, she wouldn't stop at all.
"Go easy on him, he's an old man," he chides as he approaches. The look Vesemir gives him would melt steel, but Geralt is nearly immune these days. He's old, too. "Come on. We should probably feed you."
"I'm not a goat," Ciri insists as she reluctantly turns over her wooden practice sword.
"I'm not so sure. I've seen you climbing. And I've seen what you eat."
"Hey!"
Geralt puts a hand on her back to guide her toward the upper hall. He can read the exhaustion in her, and before they're halfway there, he's carrying her. By the time he crosses the threshold, the girl is asleep against his shoulder.
"Not a word," he mutters to Eskel as he passes.
He's fought corpse-eaters, cursed beings, wraiths, and all manner of other monsters, but all it's taken to wear him down is a ten year old girl.
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It's certainly a place for people watching. From the woman changing her hair color at will as she chats with a group of teenagers to the willowy man wrangling two young children, there's certainly a crowd of people. Happy people, mostly. There are a few also warily watching the people, keeping to the outskirts. Much like her.
She wouldn't classify herself as unhappy though, just... still looking for her footing. It's a lot to throw on someone; free housing, money, transportation. The promise of safety and peace. They're impossible things to promise someone, not without strings attached. Ginia is still looking for those strings three weeks in.
The people here know how to throw a party though, that's for sure. The penthouse apartment is pretty nice, the food and drinks are solid. Ginia sighs as she works through the last of her hard seltzer drink. All right, back to the kitchen for another drink. Maybe new people have shown up since she was hanging out on the balcony.
/a drabble/
But, watching Ciri in the yard with Vesemir, he thinks, maybe, he could have been a father. The girl is not his, though with her ashen hair she could pass for it. Must come from her mother's side; Emyhr's dark looks don't seem to have caught on at all in her. He can hear Vesemir's steady catching as the girl goes through the same drills Geralt learned at her age. Block, evade, spin, slash, lunge. She's getting faster on her feet, learning to leave her weight on the balls rather than in the heel.
Almost funny now to think how hard he'd tried to leave her behind. Ciri heard stories about the white-haired witcher that would come for her someday and she'd taken it to heart. But witcher schools didn't take girls and, though she was payment, in a way, for lifting a curse on her father, Geralt was content to let the debt go. But after finding himself saving her twice, it seemed fate had other ideas.
Ciri will never be able to take the Trials, but that doesn't mean they can't train her in everything else. Lore, swordcraft, alchemy that won't kill her to use. The Path might never be hers to walk, but she would go back out into the world able to do so. She is still the daughter of an emperor and Geralt cannot help but think her father might, someday, want her back. He's surprised that the thought bothers him. Like it or not, he's become fond of the girl. Even Vesemir softened around her outside of the training regimen.
"Geralt!" Vesemir always could be heard across the keep. "Come take charge of your ward! I've had enough."
Geralt laughed quietly and pushed himself up from the scaffolding he'd perched on to watch. Either Ciri had beaten Vesemir in a game of wits or she was genuinely tired; whatever it was, it was probably best to stop her for the day. Otherwise, she wouldn't stop at all.
"Go easy on him, he's an old man," he chides as he approaches. The look Vesemir gives him would melt steel, but Geralt is nearly immune these days. He's old, too. "Come on. We should probably feed you."
"I'm not a goat," Ciri insists as she reluctantly turns over her wooden practice sword.
"I'm not so sure. I've seen you climbing. And I've seen what you eat."
"Hey!"
Geralt puts a hand on her back to guide her toward the upper hall. He can read the exhaustion in her, and before they're halfway there, he's carrying her. By the time he crosses the threshold, the girl is asleep against his shoulder.
"Not a word," he mutters to Eskel as he passes.
He's fought corpse-eaters, cursed beings, wraiths, and all manner of other monsters, but all it's taken to wear him down is a ten year old girl.