[ He cannot say he anticipated Dean arriving while he's descending, but now that it's occurred, nor is he surprised. He sighs. It may be heard from down there.
Geralt hasn't got much on him, just a pack he's left tucked at the bottom of the cliff and his sword. It's only him, latched onto the rock face with both hands under the morning sun. Dean beneath with the aura of an elderly man whose children woke him from his nap for the tenth time.
Irritation goes both ways. On the one hand, he understands Dean's...frustration. Or worry. On the other, he's hardly pleased himself with how shit turned out. Not that he died—though there's that—but because his head had felt thoroughly fucked with. But Geralt has never begun a conversation with an unprompted explanation.
He's too high up for a dramatic drop to the ground. So he makes a vague gesture at Dean with one hand from above. ]
no subject
Geralt hasn't got much on him, just a pack he's left tucked at the bottom of the cliff and his sword. It's only him, latched onto the rock face with both hands under the morning sun. Dean beneath with the aura of an elderly man whose children woke him from his nap for the tenth time.
Irritation goes both ways. On the one hand, he understands Dean's...frustration. Or worry. On the other, he's hardly pleased himself with how shit turned out. Not that he died—though there's that—but because his head had felt thoroughly fucked with. But Geralt has never begun a conversation with an unprompted explanation.
He's too high up for a dramatic drop to the ground. So he makes a vague gesture at Dean with one hand from above. ]
Say your piece.