"You're a good cook," Geralt said, one of his usual compliments. Freely given, simple, without artifice.

He finished assembling the sandwich and tucked in, without self-consciousness. The food tasted better on an empty stomach. He let himself enjoy, the saltiness of the cured meat, the creaminess of the butter. It was a welcome treat, for his hard work earlier.

"Didn't get fresh bread often. Usually had to soak the tack I ended up with in a hunter's stew. Especially at the beginning of winter. We all traveled back to Kaer Morhen when the weather set in. The dead of winter is a poor time for witchering. Hard to hear, hard to see, hard to smell when the snow is coming down thick."