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[gynvael]

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Geralt is always reachable by the network. Unless it's an emergency, expect not to hear back for a few hours, if not a few days.

To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.

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[gynvael]

Noon.

[ Noon is precisely when Geralt arrives. He could ask which tavern Clive has settled on, but Geralt prefers to do it his way. It doesn't take long for him to locate the man and his thick head of black hair.

He joins Clive, chair scraping against the stained floors. His gaze roams over him. ] I see you're...back to form.

[ He imagines it's not as strange to look at him, though, in return; Geralt changed little in those eight hundred years. The only thing different about him now is that he no longer has the shroud of the wolf and no forest sprouts around him. He does, however, retain a sharp glow to his eyes when the moonlight strikes them—a feature not there before. ]

[flagrates]

[ Geralt gets no response; Clive will be there before noon, in fact, at a tavern they both know well. He's chosen a seat on the fringes, away from the rest of the crowd. Thorne has him rightfully paranoid, but he doesn't want the citizens to really hear them, either.

He looks up from his mug as the chair scrapes, lifting his shoulder in a shrug with a wry smile on his face. He waves the waitress over for Geralt as he speaks, wrapping both hands around the mug as she makes her way over. ]

And gladly so. Though I think Dan Heng may miss the horns.

[ He takes a drink, motioning to Geralt as he continues. ] I see your eyes haven't returned properly.

[gynvael]

[ Only when he's acquired his ale and the barmaid has left does he return to the conversation. His eyebrow lifts. Hmm. ]

They suited you. [ One has to wonder what it was like, to remember a body so utterly different from yours. Perhaps it's different for Geralt, who has remained unchanged for the past hundred (eight hundred) years.

Somewhat unchanged. With small exceptions, as Clive points out. He shrugs, dismissiveness belying his ambivalence. ]

They weren't human to begin with. [ Long before those years, he'd forgotten what colour his eyes once were. Green, like his mother's? Or some other shade from a father he never knew?

He supposes Clive understands that a bit more now. They did talk over those years. Truthfully, he isn't too bothered. They're...friends. It's nothing he would not have spoken of eventually.

On the subject of friends. ] I found another outlaw outside Cadens.