Geralt stood, brushing the dirt and detritus off of his knuckles, watching Bull at the tree with low-lidded eyes. They could go on, if Bull felt it was necessary. Geralt had a prodigious stamina, for what he lacked in any other areas.

He kept watching, waiting for any potential sneak attack.

Geralt breathed in and out, evenly, but shallowly, the way that a cat might while scenting prey, seeing a chipmunk in the yard. The campsite smelled like adrenaline, like rushing blood, and something particular to the Iron Bull that Geralt could only liken to draconid pheromones.

He made an odd noise in the back of his throat, began to will himself calm.