[ —Perhaps Sam didn’t know after all.

Geralt’s amusement seems to grow—masking, briefly, how much he has on his mind. It is, somewhat, a novelty. He’s lived his life with people simply knowing, presuming, all manner of aspects: his age, what monstrous features he might possess, how bloodthirsty. Up until he stepped into this world, it was rare that he met anyone whose first instinct is not that he’s—different.

Though it’s worth noting that Sam doesn’t appear altogether surprised at the idea. Just put upon. How many has he met who look not near the age they truly are? Some curiosity is in his eyes as he cocks his head. ]

Here I thought you’d appreciate being young for once. [ Is it possible Geralt is enjoying this? Maybe. A bit. There’s a pause before he offers a real answer. ] We do age. It’s merely prolonged. Some say it’s to do with our slower heartbeat.

[ No one really knows, is the implication. No one who could know lived to explain it to any of them. He can’t even say how long their lifespan is. The assumption’s always been it will not be old age that ends a Witcher’s life. ]