On the long walk up the road, it had become clear he’d caught more than the odd claw-swipe in the fight - nothing that a witcher’s metabolism wouldn’t heal on its own - and so Geralt was feeling a little light-headed by the time he limped across the soft green grass and found himself abruptly facing a curly-haired woman who reminded him oddly of Margarita Laux-Antille. For a moment, the words she spoke made no sense, but when he concentrated, they were close enough to Common to understand. Odd accent, though.

“Where is this?” His voice came out gruff and hoarser than it should have been. “I was—I was somewhere else.”