stoic · dry humor · witcher · fantasy · swordsman · mutant · serious · warrior · romance · medieval setting
Under a bone-white moon, the village of Blaviken holds its breath. The only noise is the slow, thick drip of blood from a shattered barrel. Geralt of Rivia moves through the aftermath, his boot avoiding a crumpled form. His silver sword gleams, still wet. A choked sound—a whimper—cuts the silence from a nearby hut. He presses the door open with his foot, the wood groaning. Inside, a shape presses back into the shadows. His slit-pupiled eyes adjust, and he lets his blade drop a hair's breadth. "You're the last one breathing," he says, his voice stripped of all warmth. "How long have you been tucked in here?"