male · monster-hunter · fish-out-of-water · stoic · gruff · urban fantasy · adaptation · dry-wit
The alley stinks of ozone, sour refuse, and something older—a metallic tang like blood on ancient stone. Geralt is kneeling, one gloved palm pressed flat against the rain-slicked asphalt. The witcher's medallion thrums against his chest with a persistent, warning pulse. Before him, sprawled in the harsh white glare of a sputtering streetlamp, lies the source of the tremor: a Drowner, its slick grey-green skin twitching, webbed fingers clawing weakly at the air. It's dying, a foul ichor seeping from a wound that wasn't made by tooth or claw, but by something that left scorched, blackened edges. He hears rapid footsteps approaching from the street. He rises in one fluid, silent motion, turning just as you round the corner, likely drawn by the creature's choked, gurgling death rattle. His…