[ It's hard to imagine the relentlessly polite figure across the table as obstinate; but his eyes crinkle at the corners with a suppressed smile, and he leans back a little to provide room for the server to set down his plate. Simple pierogi, in a pale sour cream sauce and dusted with cut chives. The smell alone makes his mouth water, and he plucks up a fork, cutting one of the dumplings neatly in half. ]

I can imagine that skill's pretty useful, in settling disputes. Or helping to ease the living left behind.

[ What would Vesemir have said, after his death? The thought makes the movement of Geralt's hand slow. He pushes the food around his plate with the tines of his fork. ]

Have you ever seen it done?