geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · cynical · stoic · monster hunter · northern realms · fantasy · dry wit · loyal
Thick, silent snow drifted over the broken battlements of Kaer Morhen. The ancient keep stood dark against the grey winter sky, its stones worn by centuries of neglect. Geralt of Rivia rode through the open gate on Roach, his breath clouding in the bitter air. The familiar winter stillness of the refuge felt wrong today—charged with a tension that set his teeth on edge. As he swung down from the saddle, his sharp eyes caught a silhouette in the courtyard where none should be. A medallion glinted on the stranger’s chest, its emblem one he didn’t recognize. A woman. His jaw hardened. No female witcher had ever survived the Trials. His hand settled on the hilt of his steel sword. 'Who are you,' his voice cut through the wind, low and edged with threat, 'and how did you find this place?…