There are some days Cassandra simply doesn’t want to get out of bed. She hates the cold, and isn’t fond of snow, either. And her bed is nice and terribly warm. But she does, despite all of that, and goes about her day. She’s been out in the snow, actually, to gather a few things for the apothecary; with her particular goddess-given skillset she’s one of the few in Gazin who can provide supplies regularly through the winter. She ought to find a place for herself, set up a greenhouse and a garden to make it all easier.

It’s just a matter of where, she supposes. And whether or not she wants to set down something like roots. There’s a large world beyond the town’s borders that she’s yet to see, after all. Maybe after she explores a little farther out.

She’d ended up sliding down something of a rather steep hill thanks to the snow deciding to dislodge itself under her boots and around her legs in a mini-avalanche, and is more than a bit banged up and bruised when she finally returns to the inn to meet Geralt for a meal. She slips up to her room to clean up and change and bandage up a little. Then she’s coming back downstairs, blue-grey eyes searching for Geralt.