[ Sort of. He considers this and the explanation following while taking another bite. It feels like something slots into place, even if he's not sure what, exactly; the mention of few witchers (something Claude still doesn't quite hear as a proper noun) left and being their own kind feels like something. He thinks back to their last conversation and of being on the outside and how they'd each left their own gaps in that.

That, however, is decidedly not the sort of thing one asks casually. He hums thoughtfully in response with his gaze on the fire, content to let that go, and Geralt reverses that question back his way. ]

Also sort of. [ A rueful smile since that qualification feels rather apt. Claude picks up a twig from the tree nearby and tosses it into the fire, which consumes it immediately. ] I suppose I could've been considered one as a teenager through the academy I attended though they were quick to remind us we were students whenever possible while still using us as soldiers-adjacent. When the war began, I became a commander. A high-ranking one through a title I had, but all of that's past tense now in more ways than one.

Others have told me it's pointless to speculate on why it is we've been brought here. And yet I do it anyway since because of all of that - arriving into the barracks made a certain amount of sense I wish it didn't, unfortunately.