"Yeah," Geralt said, despite having just drank even more. He meant it, though. Even drunk, he could sober himself fast enough and to the point to hunt a gharkain, when he'd needed to.

He stood and knelt by Bull's leg, giving the brace a strange, lingering look, before unbuckling it and pulling it off.

He set it down, careful and reverential, with his swords and other valuables.

"They're mostly extinct, where I come from. Not necessarily because of witchers. We don't kill dragons, they seldom hurt anyone. Not the sentient ones. Draconids are another story, although those are also disappearing. It's the irony of the trade. The better we do our work, the faster we put ourselves out of it."