Silence falls. Geralt lets his attention turn to his surroundings for a moment. Same stone walls, same narrow corridors. Hard ground. Filthy, dusted with dirt and rats and age. He's starting to catch on, as he sees the long paths, the even steady walls lined around them. The sharp turns.

A maze. Great.

He rests his arms on his knees. Right. Assumptions. He can acknowledge he's been stubborn about it. Born of too many decades learning not to yield, that it is not worth it to lay himself out for the approval of those who will only find reasons anew to hate and fear his kind. Deep down, he's aware they do not come from the same world. That this does change things, even if it's simpler to pretend it does not, that people are the same everywhere.

(And they are. But sometimes— )

He does not wish to mire himself in bitterness, either.

"It's alchemy," he replies at last. He shifts, feeling raw, exposed. "The smell. They force mutations in the body. If you survive, you become a Witcher. Most do not."