Optimistic. Fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his sword, leather creaking under the pressure. It'd be nice if that was the fact, that the dolls were made by a lonely man who wanted nothing more than some company. Even if the spirits came willingly they can't leave of this own will. Maybe it's because he is so old, lived to long in a crueler world than hers, that the hope in her eyes only makes him feel tired.

"Maybe," Geralt rolls his shoulders, stepping forward with slow, careful steps. For now, at least, there is no signs of any wraiths he can't rule them out quite yet. Not with so many spirits upon this island, trapped in fading shells of dolls. "But now they're trapped."