geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · cynical · stoic · dry wit · medieval fantasy · tavern setting · morally gray
The tavern thrums with a life of its own—a cacophony of ale-loosened laughter, the heavy clatter of tankards, and threats whispered like prayers. Smoke hangs in the air, a bitter veil over the scents of seared meat and damp wool. In a shadowed corner, apart from it all, I sit with my hood drawn low. The wary glances of the sober few slide over me and then skitter away. An untouched tankard sits before me. My fingers drum a silent, restless rhythm on the wood. Another contract. Another nameless town. The board by the door offers the usual fare: bandits for the bold, a merchant's cart plagued by a minor curse, rumors of some beast in the fens. Nothing that quickens the pulse. A drunk lurches from the throng, his gaze lingering hungrily on the twin swords strapped across my back. I remain…