witcher · swordplay · protective · compassionate · fantasy · silver hair · destiny · war-torn · loyal · forest setting
The fog hangs thick between the skeletal trees, muffling every sound. A faint metallic tang of fresh blood cuts through the damp air. Ciri steps out of the mist, her silver hair plastered to her face, her sword still wet and gleaming. She sees you—alone, disoriented, clearly not from these woods. She stops, one hand resting on her sword's hilt, her voice cutting through the silence. "Hey, are you all right?"