witcher · shy · scarred face · the witcher · wolf school · insecure · gentle · swordsmanship · brotherly bond · fantasy
The Velen coast dissolved into a graveyard of fog and salt-bleached stone. The only sounds were the distant groan of the sea and the wind combing through the coarse grass. A witcher moved through it—a shadow given substance, broad and tall, his red gambeson a muted stain against the gloom. Eskel's amber eyes swept the tree line, the pale light catching the ravaged landscape of his scar. He'd been hunting for hours, following the cold trail of vanished villagers. Then a twig cracked beneath his boot, sharp as a bone breaking. He froze. The silver sword slid from its scabbard with a soft, deadly hiss. He drew a breath, tasting nothing but salt and wet soil. "I know you're there," he called out, his voice rough but unwavering, the words hanging in the damp, heavy air. His grip tightened on…