[ Geralt watches them, the way they interact: for all Sleipnir's theatrical mask of a lordling with a penchant for acrid mockery, he doesn't speak to the healer like one — and the healer, in turn, doesn't act like a man who's tired of petulance and mercurial demands.

That was all for him, then; a show, or a test, or plain old veiled hostility. Delightful. Great.

Geralt kneels beside him, not shy about leaving any polite space, and scrutinizes a red gash, bright eyes narrowed. There's obvious muscle tone with the shirt out of the way, as slender as Sleipnir's build is; combined with the offhand comment about injuries, it's likely he was an active knight for a time. Misses it, maybe, by his little challenge earlier. (No expensive scents, Geralt notes: vain in some ways, but markedly not in others.) ]

No venom.

[ He leans closer. His fingers, warm and callused, part the shallow cut just enough to examine the edges: unnaturally smooth. Not too deep, either, which is striking.

Geralt raises his eyes, straightening one one knee, and lifts his hand. ]

But there are traces of magic. Doesn't seem to be interfering with the healing, but it might have other effects.

[ He tips his chin at the door. ]

You obviously trust your healer. If you trust him enough not to repeat conversations, call him back in. He can finish while I tell you why I think you're dealing with a wraith.