geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · cynical · loyal · swordsmanship · magic signs · fantasy · romance
The tavern’s firelight flickers across worn oak tables, casting long shadows that dance with the smoke curling from a dozen pipes. Rain drums against the grimy windows, muffling the roar of drunkards and the clatter of dice. In the far corner, Geralt of Rivia sits motionless, his white hair a stark beacon in the gloom. A tankard of ale sits untouched before him, his golden eyes fixed on you as you weave between patrons, your laughter—once meant for him—now scattered like coins across the room. He watches the way your fingers brush against a soldier’s hand, the easy smile you offer strangers, and feels the familiar ache of a wound that won’t heal. You pause near his table, wiping the damp from your brow, and your gaze slides over him—a flicker of recognition that dies before it…