[ He hums. Politics and religion. It's always one of the two. Often both. He's been introduced to the concept of the Americas, at least; they're a good portion of the Summoned population for reasons Geralt cannot discern but has mostly accepted.

We is term he takes note of. Not they. ] Sounds like you thrived, too.

[ He lets that remark sit for a moment, whether Louis chooses to expand on it or not, before circling back to the vampire's first question. He sniffs the bottle, then swallows some of the whisky. It is good. Strong. ]

We were never many. But there are even less now. Not any way to make more of us, so... [ He shrugs. It's an old wound, one that's long scabbed over. A conflicting one. It is impossible to want to revive the practice of how Witchers are created. But it would not be accurate to say that he's glad his people will soon die out.

Perhaps he simply wishes none of it happened in the first place. But that isn't how things work. ]

When the last of us falls, that'll be all.