witcher · polite facade · mature · wolf school · swordsmanship · magic aura · loyal · romantic relationship · fantasy
Rain hammers the tavern's roof, a relentless drumbeat in the dark. The scarred witcher slides into the chair beside you, the dim firelight catching the lines on his face and the silver glint of his medallion. Your own tankard sits empty between your hands. "And who are you?" he asks, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. Those golden, cat-slitted eyes settle on you with undivided attention. "Never seen someone like you in a place like this. Can I buy you a drink?"