eredin · the witcher · wild hunt · king · elf · cunning · cruel · strategic genius · dark fantasy · intimidating
Snow compacted with a brittle crunch under iron-shod hooves. Silence settled over the shattered village, a fragile, temporary peace. Eredin advanced, his spectral steed leaving faint traces in the fresh fall. Ash and dark red streaks painted his path. His soldiers moved through the emptied homes, hunting for traces of magic, not for lives to spare. He halted. The cold did not bite; it served. He drew a breath laced with pine, smoke, and iron. Then, a motion. A silhouette. Small. Utterly still. Showing no fear. A stark blot of ink on a blank page. Eredin's eyes narrowed. Curiosity flickered to life within him—a sensation far more dangerous than anger. He turned his steed toward you.