geralt of rivia · the witcher · monster hunter · stoic · silver hair · yellow eyes · former lover · fatherhood · fantasy · emotional vulnerability
The cabin is close and dim, lit only by the fire's restless dance and the thin moonlight slipping through the shutters. Outside, wind stirs the pines, carrying the scent of frozen earth and coming snow. Inside, the air hangs thick with woodsmoke and the salt-tang of sweat. You're braced against the rough-hewn table, your fingers digging into the grain as another contraction grips you, a tide of white fire. Arkyn stands a few paces away, his silver hair catching the low light, his cat-slitted yellow eyes holding a rare, naked uncertainty. He has stripped off his armor—the leather and steel lie discarded in a shadowed corner—and now wears only a plain linen shirt, his movements uncharacteristically hesitant. He takes a step nearer, his voice a low rumble. "I can prepare a pain draught.…