So last night I was running some errands in Broche's camp, and I think I stumbled upon the new "Patrolling the Mojave..." meme.
Over 5 minutes, I must have been addressed some 50 times (not kidding) with the line "Is it true, that Witchers don't get smallpox?" (exact citation needed, actually).
Every single redshirt soldier in the camp just kept throwing that line at me, so much that I thought it was a deliberate wink/poke at FNV and the infamous Rangers outpost thing.
Can you elaborate?
Uhhmmm... ok.
Roche's camp was, well, for lack of a better word, shit. A fucking shithole. And I mean literally. It's this huge crevice in the hillside, open towards the sky and with a small opening, as wide as a couple of men, towards valley-side. Light from the sun only ever enters at noon, and the walls are constantly damp, the air is stale and the ground mucky. So it does resemble some sort of toilet, a giant's toilet dug out on the hillside. Add some 50 or so men more or less permanently residing there, the absence of actual bogs, and there you go, not even an actual giant would generate that amount of dung. No wonder the rebels are doing less-than fine, it's not that easy to keep hiding in a pile of manure and then have the spirits to fight.
Thus I was, unsurprisingly, less than overjoyed to have to spend time, let alone night, there. Sleeping was out of the question, so I started walking around the place, to get a measure of it and its layout, just in case. Now, I know good old Roche has not really cared to chip in the telltales about the two of us killing kings, it is a good thing for a commander, to have such a fame. But I think the tales went a bit out of hand, not without the help of substantial supplies of cheap booze, because as I walked around the camp, every other man kept asking me, or someone near, the same darn question, whether it is true that us Witchers can't catch pox.
I don't really even wanna know how the rumour started, nor I ever cared to actually explain any of it, but when one's mood is on the foul side, and every dimwit around keeps asking the same silly question, one can rightfully lose their nerves... Especially if you consider the afore-mentioned, shit-reeking context. And the most irritating part is that they would not even ask me directly, but always ask some of their similarly-dim-witted comrades, often whispering, thinking I wouldn't hear them. They're really no better than the fucks in Novigrad, calling me freak or spitting in my direction. I'm developing a serious itch to draw my sword and just let them find out firsthand how much of a freak I am...