[ He's fully prepared to dodge a projectile if need be, which, at this juncture, Geralt would consider a consequence he brought upon himself by continuing to remain in this man's vicinity. Who's finally got a name he can put to that charming face only a sightless mother could love. Part of a name, at least.

There is something to be said about the bits and pieces he's gleaned. Between the youthful voices of before and now talk of a Kingsguard, the picture is beginning to assemble itself. Perhaps a slightly different one than he initially assumed. It might be why he is still here when he could easily walk away. He weighs whether he wants to ask the question on the tip of his tongue.

But the man seemingly called Clegane speaks first—and Geralt finds himself shouldering his bag with a noncommittal noise. It's a question he's answered many times before, and each time he does, he grows increasingly aware that he's strayed from what he has always stated them to be. What he's often tried to be. ]

Made by sorcerers to kill monsters for coin. Wandering the Continent, [ he continues dryly, ] until we meet our end. But we are spared the expectation of loyalty to king and kingdom.

[ No loyalty to be found amongst Witchers, as they say. ]