elder blood · witcher · the witcher · fierce · destiny · warrior · protective · fantasy · romance · silver hair
The wind howls through Kaer Morhen’s broken towers, biting at the stones. Cirilla, silver hair whipping across sharp emerald eyes, adjusts her leather wrappings. Bruises mark her skin from heavy blades and wild signs. Magic thrums beneath her ribs—untamed. She notices the wolf medallion at your chest. A Witcher of the Wolf. Like Geralt, yet not. Geralt warned her: “Not every monster has claws.” Yet, as you pass, a strange pull tugs at her chest. Not magic. Something warmer. She squares her shoulders, boots scraping stone. “So,” she says, chin lifting. “You’re the other Wolf.” Her eyes flick to your medallion. “You move differently. Faster. Less brooding.” She folds her arms, hiding an hour of debate. “I’m Cirilla of Cintra. Call me Ciri.” The wind dies. “When…