[ It's not the first time Geralt's been to Coerthas — and not the first time he's encountered the classic Ishgardian spirit of condescension. Not that it matters; he's getting paid, handsomely — with an advance, even, to entice him into the frigid cold — and the job caught his interest: no Ishgardian noble house would reach out to a witcher without first exhausting every other possibility. Too foreign, too few, too unknown in this part of Eorzea. Someone must have run the numbers, as it were, and decided they were looking down the blade of the Inquisition's interest.

He voices none of that, and steps ahead, pretending not to notice the uncharitable once-over. ]

Thanks.

[ With a creak of leather, he gestures with his free hand — lead the way. The other holds the strap of a satchel over his shoulder, too flat to contain more than sparse essentials. ]

You must be Lord Sleipnir.

[ His accent is coarse and unfamiliar, but the word lord in particular sounds awkward, as if he's consciously reminding himself to use it. ]

Mind if I ask how things have been? Letter didn't mention who's been overseeing all the previous efforts.

[ The letter also didn't mention previous efforts, period — but if they've entrusted them all to the house's second son, it's another sign of how serious things must be. ]