‘ Ah, but there is no need to thank! Nobody should be outside in such rain. And any mud you may get on the floor before leaving, you will clean yourself. ‘ Although the words are spoken alike a jest, her expression still adorned with a smile that remains but so bright despite the grim atmosphere summoned by the storm, there hides a certain deal behind the invitation. So long as the man does not bring her too much work to clean past his visit, there is naught that stands in the way of letting him rest a little, regain the strength and wait until the rain becomes but a reminiscent of an unfortunate afternoon.
And so, as promised, moving in the doorway results in making enough space for Geralt to enter the homestead. A rather large building brought to its size by the last coin the Dragonborn could put into the process of its creation, with a porch and two additional floors; in other words, too much for one person, and too much for the savior of worlds sentenced to a lonely life. Perhaps its role is merely to provide Bern a shadow of what ifs, a perspective yet to be fulfilled, should the gods allow - for the witcher, however, it may only be thought as luck. With a number of rooms higher than necessary, he may rest in a decent bed rather than wherever the steps may take him into the wild fields.
‘ More than once has the memory proven itself deceitful, yes, but I do not recall seeing you here before, in Falkreath… How do they call you? ‘, Bern asks once the front doors are closed behind their backs, her hands wiped against a cloth hanging near a cupboard that holds the majority of different cloaks and shoes serving for travels.
It does look a bit much for just her, and Geralt doesn’t see anything that gives him reason to think she lives here with anybody else. It’s got that large, empty sort of feel to it. A house waiting to be filled, that’s perhaps been waiting for quite some time. He’s no expert on such matters, however. Things such as houses are a mystery to him, with all the time he spends out of them. And when Geralt finds himself going home -- well, a castle is hardly a house, now, is it?
If the bad weather calls for it, however, and he finds that he must stay in this house, in a regular bed for once -- well, he won’t complain so loudly. And he’ll gladly tidy up any messes he creates while he’s staying here. But he’s getting ahead of himself. There’s no saying the bad weather is even going to be lasting that long. Even if it would make for a nice change, sleeping in a proper bed, with pillows and actually being warm--
There he goes, getting ahead of himself again.
He’s thankful for her question, when it comes. It gives him an excuse to stop thinking about things that a witcher, a monster hunter such as he, has no right to expect.
“I am Geralt,” he says, and glances down to his muddy boots a moment later. A pause, and he decides it’s for the best that he removes them. Best not to traipse mud throughout the entire household. Not when she’s being so welcoming. “I’ve only come through Falkreath once. Briefly. I haven’t come again since.” A pause, and the silence is almost begging for her to ask after that story. One that Geralt doesn’t particularly care to tell. So he asks a question of his own, and hopes that the silence is satisfied. “What do they call you?”
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