"Geralt."
Lann followed behind Belengar into the little office he'd built inside the Blacksmith's workshop, greeting the familiar face sitting inside as he walked.
"Of course it's you, Geralt." Lann's face wore a meaningful, teasing smile as he repeated his name. "Besides you, what other Demon Hunter has a personality this twisted up?"
This Old Friend still had that sickly, milky‑white hair tied back in a ponytail, bound at the nape of his neck with a cord.
His face hadn't changed much; with a Demon Hunter's lifespan, this short a time really wasn't enough to matter.
Lann just didn't know if he'd picked up any injuries, any new scars while working during this stretch.
The way Demon Hunters show the passage of time on their bodies, the most obvious marks are scars.
Nobody knows what kind of wounds you'll end up with when you're grappling and brawling with grotesque monsters.
