[ The truth is, Geralt hasn’t got a proper term for what he is for those who don’t know what a Witcher means, though hybrid would be fairly close. His understanding of what was done to him is rudimentary at best; most of the research's been set ablaze and he was all but five when he underwent it—but he knows enough to realize that he shares more than a few aspects in common with the creatures he hunts.
He doesn’t expect that comment, though, and it shows. A nice place. He glances up at the high ceilings, the old walls. To him, it’s comforting; where he goes to leave behind the rest of the world. He also knows Kaer Morhen is crumbling, dying. No one ever comes here other than his own back on the Continent, but he’s always imagined if they did, they’d think it cold and lonely. Foreboding. Fitting, for an equally dying breed. He’s curious, suddenly, what Amos’ world looks like if he finds this nice.
His gaze drifts for a moment to the medallions hanging before it returns to Amos. It’s not a secret, what happened, and the way he answers suggests he's long buried how he feels about it. ] We were created, at first, to kill the monsters that roamed. More and more, those monsters dwindled. People turned their fears elsewhere. After that night, the process was lost. Amongst other things.
[ What’s left is left. Geralt has only brief memories of a time when there were dozens of them. He was a boy when the mob stormed the fortress. Freshly out of the Trials that killed more than half of the children taken with him, before the violence outside ever came knocking. So. The bones that fill the snow and the scattering of Witchers who remained in these hollowed out halls—that’s what he grew up with. ]
no subject
He doesn’t expect that comment, though, and it shows. A nice place. He glances up at the high ceilings, the old walls. To him, it’s comforting; where he goes to leave behind the rest of the world. He also knows Kaer Morhen is crumbling, dying. No one ever comes here other than his own back on the Continent, but he’s always imagined if they did, they’d think it cold and lonely. Foreboding. Fitting, for an equally dying breed. He’s curious, suddenly, what Amos’ world looks like if he finds this nice.
His gaze drifts for a moment to the medallions hanging before it returns to Amos. It’s not a secret, what happened, and the way he answers suggests he's long buried how he feels about it. ] We were created, at first, to kill the monsters that roamed. More and more, those monsters dwindled. People turned their fears elsewhere. After that night, the process was lost. Amongst other things.
[ What’s left is left. Geralt has only brief memories of a time when there were dozens of them. He was a boy when the mob stormed the fortress. Freshly out of the Trials that killed more than half of the children taken with him, before the violence outside ever came knocking. So. The bones that fill the snow and the scattering of Witchers who remained in these hollowed out halls—that’s what he grew up with. ]