[ Prickly, is she? Ciri crosses her arms over her chest with a huff, lifting up her chin in a slightly haughty look as if to stare down her nose at him. She ignores the nagging feeling that says he's probably not lying or addled, that he seems fully sober and, worse, younger, and that doesn't make much sense. (Or maybe it does, but only in one very specific instance that she doesn't want to admit is probable at this point).

Even if nothing makes sense in this stupid dream, she's still allowed to be annoyed about it. ]

I don't know what's going on, but fine. I'll go along with it.

I'm Ciri. I'm a Witcher.

You know Geralt? I'm with him.