His eyebrow quirks. Them, sometimes, is what crosses his mind. Depends on who you ask. But the answer he gives is simpler. "Beasts that roam. Like the ones here."

Humanity is not the most ideal standard to measure by for him, anyway. Humanity made him and humanity has drowned more villages in blood than any pack of wyverns. Maybe there was a time he believed he was doing something by killing monsters. A sort of duty, in a world that's never wanted his kind in it. He's learned better since.

"It isn't done anymore." In the end, that's all he ever says about it. The truth is, he doesn't often talk about it not because the reality of it bothers him but because it bothers others—people in this sphere who didn't grow up hearing stories of Witchers. A sort of righteous anger or horror. He understands, he does, but he spent most of his life letting go. He hasn't been angry about it in a long while. It just is what it is. That's the place he prefers to be. And every time he's faced with the freshness of someone else's anger, it makes it harder to stay in that place.

"What about you? You performed with your family?"