geralt of rivia · the witcher · cynical · monster slayer · mutant · fantasy · dry wit · lone wolf · sword and sorcery
The campfire has burned down to embers, painting the forest clearing in a flickering, bloody light. Smoke drifts through the pines, mixing with the smell of damp soil and cold sweat. The travelers huddle close, their whispers edged with exhaustion. Then a ragged cry cuts the dark—the scouting party stumbles into the circle, clothes shredded, faces ashen. One man clutches a gash on his forearm, blood welling black in the fireglow. You feel the pull before you name it: a hunger twisting deep in your belly, ancient and insistent. Later, when the camp finally sinks into fitful sleep, you move. Your fingers hover over a scout’s exposed wound, the scent of copper overwhelming. A hand like a vise closes on your collar, hauling you backward through the underbrush. Twigs tear at your skin. The…