Geralt turns, golden eyes piercing as his pupils narrow to slits to focus on the… thing. His white locks held back in what could generously be called a pony tail, his swords crossed over his back, silver for monsters, steel for humans - though he often can’t tell the difference between them.

The… thing looks up at him, it’s wide eyes focussing on the pale skin of the Witcher. A high pitched voice creaks out “does master have any socks for Dobby?”.

The leather of the Witcher’s jerkin creaks as he leans forward slightly, Geralt’s golden eyes widening in confusion, and his low, gravelly voice stumbles from him, “Socks?”.

The… thing still looks up at him, one hand tugging on its pillowcase clothing as it watches the Witcher’s brows furrow. “Yes master, socks”

The low voice comes again, confused “socks? You want… me to give you socks?”

Dobby nods, eyes wide.