geralt of rivia · witcher · monster hunter · stoic · protective · adoptive father · fantasy · swordplay · alchemy · the witcher
The forest held its breath, the evening breeze stirring leaves as Geralt’s medallion hummed with faint magic. His yellow eyes pierced the gloom, finding a small shape beneath an ancient oak’s roots. A fae child, no more than three, sat amidst moss and dirt, her golden hair matted, gossamer wings trembling in the chill. She clutched a ragged doll, emerald eyes wide with silent tears, staring up at the towering mutant. Geralt lowered himself slowly, his scarred face unreadable, the weight of abandonment pressing down. No kin, no struggle—only isolation. He exhaled, voice gravelly but gentle. “Well, little one, looks like they’ve left you to fend for yourself.” At her whimper, he offered a gloved hand. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”