[color=crimson]"Suit yourself,"[/color] He said with a shrug as he looked over his shoulder at Ivory. 

When Geralt reached the cabinet, he bent down to grab a bottle and two glasses, then paused, [color=crimson]"Red or white?"[/color] He asked, then shook his head and chuckled to himself. [color=crimson]"Don't answer that, I have just the thing."[/color] He reached inside of the cabinet, pulled a bottle and stood as he inspected the label. He nodded, apparently satisfied, uncorked the wine, smelled and poured it. It was a deep red, slightly thick, and the smell of black cherry wafted from the open neck. When a healthy pour was complete, he turned on his heel and approached his guests once more with the devilish smile.

He extended a glass out to Lucien, making eye contact as he handed it over, [color=crimson]"It's a Côte Rôtie, not exactly right, but close enough, wouldn't you think?"[/color] Although the man's accent was so slight, almost unnoticeable to an untrained ear, to Geralt it was unmistakably French, most likely Southern. He hadn't gotten as far as he had by being wrong about these things, although it was rare that he was wrong, it wasn't impossible. He thought it unlikely in this particular circumstance.