[Though they haven't precisely met, yet, word of Geralt's deeds have even coursed down the grapevine and been heard of a bit by L. It's through the awestruck and rosetinted lenses and mouths of babes, filtered once more through the peculiar place L occupies among the orphans: an adult, certainly, but perhaps not to the heavy extent of the other volunteers. There's a kinship, an understanding that while L does not treat them as dumb kids, they do not treat him as one they need to hide from, at least not as much.

Geralt has been described; he can guess, by sight, who he is, though he refrains from calling him by name until he's sure.]

A healer?

[Pale, fine features pinch in scrutiny and alarm.]

What's happened?

[He quickly dries his hands, jerking his head in the direction of one of the halls before waiting for an answer. It can be explained on the way.]

It's not one of my talents, but I can take you to the infirmary. A healer is on staff fairly constantly...

[For reasons that become clear the more time one actually spends around kids.