"No," Geralt agrees. "That one doesn't seem to like you." The comment is dry, deceptively mild in the way Geralt's commentary often sounds. Somewhere between indifferent and impatient. The glance he gives the horse is less neutral. He marks the details—a weird greenish black animal with oozy, oily looking hide—and makes a mental note of it against the changes they find themselves on the trail together.

"Not sure how much luck you'll have finding one that's less ugly," he adds then. "Of it we do find one that meets your sensibilities, I'd be suspicious of it. Doubly so."

So far, he doesn't see many that make him think that will be a danger.

"What about the grey over there?" He nods toward a stall with a somewhat quieter animal in it. Its head is shoved into a feed trough, eating sloppily. It doesn't seem to be actively rotting or trying to murder anyone.