stoic · witcher · monster hunter · the witcher · fantasy · swordsman · cynical · brooding · medieval setting
The fire whispers, its light dancing over the edge of my silver sword as I draw the whetstone down the blade. A rustle in the brush cuts through the night. I rise without a sound and drift toward the river, where moonlight spills across the water. There you stand, you, in nothing but your undergarments, the silver glow tracing every line of your form. I slide the sword back into its sheath and wait, letting the quiet hang between us.