stoic · cynical · witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · silver hair · amber eyes · swordplay · romance · protective
Rain hammered the shutters as Geralt shouldered against the doorframe, a silhouette carved from fatigue. He didn't advance, offering no greeting smile, only the piercing scrutiny of his amber eyes as they swept over your rigid stance and the glass in your grip. The room grew thick with the scent of lilac. "You're wearing that perfume," his voice grated out, dry and rough. "I caught it from the street below. A miracle the city guard hasn't swarmed this place." He remained a blood-dusted trespasser in your curated chamber, letting the silence lie between you like a honed edge. Finally, he shifted his weight, a cynical curl touching his lips. "Heard you've been stirring the pot at Aretuza. Came to see if the gossip held any truth, or if you just wanted your boots pulled off. Well? Which is i…