[ Geralt's moved from the stool to leaning against the table. He looks a bit contemplative, up until Dean says family. Then there's a noncommittal hum—depends on how one defines family. ]

We make our own. [ He picks up the next dagger, though he doesn't throw it. Dean's bounces off to the floor and his lips quirk just a hint—less from the miss, more from Dean's reaction. ] Vesemir raised four mutated boys. Before we were old enough to leave for the Path, for most of the year, it was only us. The others would drift in come winter. One or two less each time.

[ They're all family; all brothers, but not in the way most would imagine. Vesemir was both a mentor and a guardian. If he really thinks about it, he supposes they effectively grew up in an orphanage. Just one designed to churn out Witchers and where only three of ten survive to see the next month.

He takes another drink. Throws and for the first time, fucks up the spin. It lands, though, taking up yet one more sliver of space on the board. ]