The witcher doesn't deign to reply to that. It doesn't take them long to get to their destination, because it's not a very big village, after all. They'll find they have to slow their steps to not outright overtake the man, who leads them to a hut closer to the outskirts of town.
'Hovel' might be a more accurate word for it. It's visibly in need of repair and listing to one side, the lantern light from inside shining through far too many holes. There's a fence around it, if one can call a series of poles hammered into the ground fences. It smells strongly of goats, though whatever livestock lives around here seems to have been put away for the night. It's at that boundary that Lambert stops, crossing his arms and frowning.
The man doesn't notice, still cradling a broken hand and disoriented by the witcher's demand. He gets to the door, but it turns out he doesn't have too even call out for anyone inside: it swings open as he's halfway to it, and what steps out to greet him is a boy.
Underfed for his age, dressed in clothing that's visibly worn but otherwise in good repair, and regarding him warily as he stands in the doorway, blocking his path. His eyes widen a little bit at the sight of obvious injury, and he glances at the magician and the witcher with obvious confusion.
"What--" he starts, but the man doesn't let him get far before he's hitting him hard enough to knock him down into the mud. The boy doesn't even squeak as he goes down, twisting with the momentum of the blow so it hurts less when he sprawls, though it'll still leave a bruise on his face either way. The man doesn't notice that, or the way that small face turns up towards him with an expression of livid fury for all of a moment before it's smoothed over into sullen indifference again.
"Shut your mouth, Lambert, and get me a drink. Where's your mother?"
cw from this point on: child abuse
'Hovel' might be a more accurate word for it. It's visibly in need of repair and listing to one side, the lantern light from inside shining through far too many holes. There's a fence around it, if one can call a series of poles hammered into the ground fences. It smells strongly of goats, though whatever livestock lives around here seems to have been put away for the night. It's at that boundary that Lambert stops, crossing his arms and frowning.
The man doesn't notice, still cradling a broken hand and disoriented by the witcher's demand. He gets to the door, but it turns out he doesn't have too even call out for anyone inside: it swings open as he's halfway to it, and what steps out to greet him is a boy.
Underfed for his age, dressed in clothing that's visibly worn but otherwise in good repair, and regarding him warily as he stands in the doorway, blocking his path. His eyes widen a little bit at the sight of obvious injury, and he glances at the magician and the witcher with obvious confusion.
"What--" he starts, but the man doesn't let him get far before he's hitting him hard enough to knock him down into the mud. The boy doesn't even squeak as he goes down, twisting with the momentum of the blow so it hurts less when he sprawls, though it'll still leave a bruise on his face either way. The man doesn't notice that, or the way that small face turns up towards him with an expression of livid fury for all of a moment before it's smoothed over into sullen indifference again.
"Shut your mouth, Lambert, and get me a drink. Where's your mother?"