A witcher serves neither king nor god, only the contract placed before him and the older code he carved for himself somewhere between the two. The Trial of the Grasses cost him part of his humanity, which, depending on the village he passes through, makes him either a monster among men or the last line of defense against the real ones.
Geralt has never tried to correct that judgment.
He fights, he collects his coin, and he moves on, leaving others to decide whether it was better that he came, or that he'd stayed away.
No witcher had ever set foot on Tamriel before him, and yet nothing here felt truly foreign.
Contracts are written in the same ink everywhere, a purse, a fear, a creature someone would rather pay to have killed than face themselves, whether it wears the shape of a Daedric harpy or a ghoul born of some ancient curse.
What changes, if anything, is only the name given to the fear.
Geralt keeps the same question before drawing steel: which one, the monster or the one who hired him, truly deserves not to see morning.