Geralt watched Krem stretching in his armor quietly, eyes curious, thoughtful. He had no idea how old the man was, both because Krem had a fairly lineless, clear, inscrutable sort of face, and because Geralt had gotten to the point where it was difficult to tell a human's age. They were young, or they were old.

He suspected he might be on the younger side though, now. Maybe he'd still been growing into his armor. Because he pulled at it now like it was tight around the shoulders, in serious need of adjusting.

That was bad. That sort of thing killed men. Killed witchers. But there was no helping it tonight.

"Give me that armor later. I'll adjust it for you. I have a repair kit in my things back at camp. Provided it wasn't also destroyed."

He shook his head and waved them after him, out of the barn.

"Not a fan of Squirrels, either."

There was irony in his soft voice.