Regis doesn't bother to hide his delight at the sound of a very familiar voice. His dark eyes are bright as Geralt approaches to dutifully hold the loose end in place. Nimble fingers are quick to secure the pin back in place, this time with a better grip on the fabric. He lets his hand brush Geralt's before withdrawing it.

"I look like a statesman in the heart of Nilfgaard," he insists. Dignified, perhaps, but feeling no less out of place. "It seemed easier to go along with it after the third or fourth time someone remarked about my utter lack of festive spirit. Far be it from me to deny the local customs."

His expression softens and he reaches up again to squeeze Geralt's shoulder. The matter of Detlaff had curtailed any real catching up, which he regrets. It's easy to think that one might have time later, when Regis knows better than most how untrue that can be. Time is hardly a guarantee, even for someone who has lived as long as he has.

"My dear friend, where have we found ourselves this time?"