The rain had thinned to mist when Geralt spotted her kneeling beside Eskel on the roadside, hands glowing soft gold as she stitched flesh with more than thread. Her touch was steady, unshaken by blood or the monsterous corpses around her.

Ciri shifted in the saddle. Thinking it odd that the woman was not afraid. It's true she wasn’t. Not of monsters, not of war and not of him. Geralt dismounted, boots squelching in the mud. The healer slowly, met his gaze with a calm that unsettled him more than steel.

“You’re not from here.” He said, voice low. Curious as he caught sight of potions that no usual healer could hope to carry, she reached into the bag pulling one out to heal his brother Eskel the Witcher before her.