[ Now that's a question. Geralt huffs, brushing away sawdust. ]

A rabble in the streets. A mob of humans that didn't appreciate the rest of us who were not.

[ Same old song. He didn't ask Ciri for the particulars; telling him was difficult enough, and he saw no reason to make her recount every detail. The hands of some human tells him plenty. And what would have been the alternative? Alone in a bog to a water hag? He was never destined to leave this life in glory. He isn't sure he'd have wanted to.

At least Ciri knew what happened to him. He didn't simply...fail to return home one day. ]

You? Any better than speared by a peasant's son?