Looking after a drunken nobleman isn't what Geralt thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, but somehow he's here. Walking the stumbling man through Lowtown as he attempts to regal the Witcher with what he calls a famous Orlesian ballad. It isn't, in fact if it was supposed to be some sort of song Geralt could hardly tell with how off key Marquis d'Lussard sings.

It shouldn't hurt if he just... took the hilt of his sword and knocked the man out, would it? Hitting what could only be the songs crescendo the Marquis slips, flailing arms latching onto Geralt's for stability. Funny how quickly 'holding onto dear life' turns into 'uncomfortable hugging for dear life', it grew tiresome of it after a fifth time the Marquis slipped. As heavy as the man is Geralt manages to pry himself free, watching blankly as the man fails to regain what little balance he still has and falls back onto a patch of half melted ice.

The cries that follow ("why didn't you catch me?" "i can't feel my legs!") sounds like they come from a child rather than an grown man. They do little to urge the Witcher into action, only increase his desire to abandon the man to whatever horrors the population of Lowtown may have in plan for him.

"Get up. Your legs are fine."

His boots crunch heavily against the coarse sand, medallion vibrating rapidly against his chest. It had been doing that since the moment they made shore, confirming a part of the Witcher's suspicions as to why they had been asked to investigate. It's Witcher work after all.

"Careful," He starts, nodding towards the dolls swaying from the nearby trees. "My medallion's humming, can only mean magic. Or monsters." Despite the warning Geralt waltz's straight over to one, reaching out to pluck it down. As he does the doll's clothes disintegrates from his touch, leaving behind a cloud of dust decorating his glove. How long have they been out here? Worn down by time and weather, it's a miracle some of them have lasted this long. The sea breeze brushes past them, other dolls swinging with it, and something catches his finely turned hearing; a whisper, a plea. The wolf's head medallion around his neck shakes even more and Geralt drops the doll, only to bring a heel down upon it barely a moment later.

"Someone's been binding spirits to the dolls." A glance behind him, to his company, as he draws his silver sword from his back. The runes etched upon it glow gently with purple light, the sword almost singing as it is freed. "Stay close to me."

does anyone know of a good blacksmith?