That a soul has wandered by his domain is not unusual. Nor is the knocking. Geralt's come to expect visitors now and again while he's in here—though he doesn't always greet them.

The name. That part's new. As is the declaration to palaver. Geralt hasn't met any Roland. Nor does he know of anyone by that name. And as strange as it is to think about, for him, that's different. Of those who can enter the Horizon, Geralt is familiar with a good handful by now. Hard not to when half of them were locked up together and the other half came in and out of the dungeons.

He sets his sword aside, where he's been oiling it for lack of anything better to do while he's here. (Waiting for her, maybe.) The doors open with a heavy creak—both of them.

Geralt sets his gaze on the man standing in the snow. It's not an unfriendly face that looks back at him, but it is a hard face. And an unfamiliar one. One eyebrow lifts. He doesn't quite step aside yet, but his expression is more curious than wary.

"What's this about?"