[Not the explanation he really expects. He raises his brow, looks at Geralt with a glance, then drops his eyes back down to the miniature monster rumble going on between them.
Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool.]
Whole 'nother realm, huh. [He says it like a guy unsurprised to hear it. And it isn't even about Abraxas. It's the underworld. Some other plane spitting out monsters is nothing new. They gotta crawl outta somewhere, right? But Geralt's saying this one's different. Maybe some of his hunts are homebrewed.] Myriapod's almost too on the nose. Or a misnomer. Those are all hands, not feet.
[Semantics, but. Shouldn't it be myriamanu? Okay, fair. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
He moves his hand away when a splash of monster blood threatens to splatter across his fingers. Man, they're really going at it, huh? This is a life or death struggle, and it's like watching an ant wrestling a crumb, waiting for them to move the magnifying glass overhead.
Nero tips his head. It's not the weirdest question, and -- another hunter, he'd get it, right? It's not like Geralt's some occult journalist looking for a scoop. The Order doesn't mean shit here. Besides, they're all gone now. It's just him, Nico, and a van.] Born into it. [He pauses. Debatable, considering the bloodline now. He really doesn't wanna get into it, though. Geralt's already a nose ahead of most people, and that's weird enough.] Well. Adopted. Got picked up as a baby by the Order. Church full of hunters. Moment I could pick up a sword, I found out I'm pretty damn good at this whole hunting thing. Not so great at the church thing. [Pretty much only thing he's made for, really. And he had a whole city to protect.
Hah. City. Whole world, with Dante gone.] Doesn't freak me out to say I like doing it. It makes sense, you know? I don't exactly see myself fixing cars. Or, uh... plumbing.
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Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool.]
Whole 'nother realm, huh. [He says it like a guy unsurprised to hear it. And it isn't even about Abraxas. It's the underworld. Some other plane spitting out monsters is nothing new. They gotta crawl outta somewhere, right? But Geralt's saying this one's different. Maybe some of his hunts are homebrewed.] Myriapod's almost too on the nose. Or a misnomer. Those are all hands, not feet.
[Semantics, but. Shouldn't it be myriamanu? Okay, fair. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
He moves his hand away when a splash of monster blood threatens to splatter across his fingers. Man, they're really going at it, huh? This is a life or death struggle, and it's like watching an ant wrestling a crumb, waiting for them to move the magnifying glass overhead.
Nero tips his head. It's not the weirdest question, and -- another hunter, he'd get it, right? It's not like Geralt's some occult journalist looking for a scoop. The Order doesn't mean shit here. Besides, they're all gone now. It's just him, Nico, and a van.] Born into it. [He pauses. Debatable, considering the bloodline now. He really doesn't wanna get into it, though. Geralt's already a nose ahead of most people, and that's weird enough.] Well. Adopted. Got picked up as a baby by the Order. Church full of hunters. Moment I could pick up a sword, I found out I'm pretty damn good at this whole hunting thing. Not so great at the church thing. [Pretty much only thing he's made for, really. And he had a whole city to protect.
Hah. City. Whole world, with Dante gone.] Doesn't freak me out to say I like doing it. It makes sense, you know? I don't exactly see myself fixing cars. Or, uh... plumbing.