@sorcerersxwidow
He could feel the eyes of the tavern on him as he left, having downed the ale in one fell swoop. He had placed his money on the bar and left, having grown tired of Dandelion’s crooning and the gawking and insipid babble of the girls mooning over him.
The cold air hit him in the face and he was starkly reminded that fall would soon turn to winter. For a moment, he allowed himself to think that he would need to return to Kaer Morhen. He couldn’t hide the small smile that resulted from him remembering that now he had somewhere else to go. Of course, he would still probably make his way to Kaer Morhen - even only for a few months. Despite the changes, the ancient fortress still felt like home.
How long since Ciri had convinced Emhyr to push through the law changes? He forgot. A few weeks? Months? Couldn’t have been more than three months ago that he would been refused entrance to the city just because of his eyes - let alone the swords he carried. But now, he had been welcomed with open arms - or at least as close to open as Nilfgaard could get when it came to mutants and other “unnatural things.”
He looked up towards the towering golden spires. He wondered if Ciri was looking down. If he knew well at all, she was probably looking down on the streets and planning exactly how she was going to evade her servants tonight so she could run wild and free through the Nilfgaardian countryside. He smirked as he realized she had probably already accomplished phase one of that plan. He felt bad for Nilfgaard - they had no idea what they were getting into.
He turned as he smelled something odd - yet something familiar. He couldn’t quite place it. For a moment he thought and then realized - southern roast pork. The scents of the spices were unmistakable. Molasses, sugar, dark southern spices. His mouth immediately started watering and he decided that Dandelion was more than capable of fending off his adoring female fans without him.
He followed the scent like a young teenager following a giggling maiden and found himself as a large meat stall - a full pig roasting on a spit behind the large, corpulent street vendor. He was calling out to passers-by in broken Nilfgaardian, his voice betraying a very thick Toussaint accent.
Geralt was slightly surprised when the vendor didn’t turn him away, and accepted his bag of coin in return for a large portion of spiced pork cheek, which he barely wasted any time tearing apart and shoving into his mouth as he walked away towards one of the many city parks. He was silently thankful that most Nilfgaardians made it a point to be indoors after the moon rose, and so he took a seat on one of the benches in the mostly abandoned garden.
He had just taken another large bite when he noticed the eyes peering over at him. He swallowed slowly as he looked back towards a young feminine face.
“... what?”
He pulled the bottle of vodka from his belt and uncorked it with his teeth, taking a large gulp to wash the meat down his gullet.
Tactful as ever.