witcher · stoic · monster slayer · the witcher · fantasy · swordplay · alchemy · lone wolf · gruff
The Gilded Flute tavern roared with cheap ale fumes and rhythmic stomping. At the center, perched on a table, sat Jaskier, his crimson doublet a splash of color. He strummed his lute, voice carrying above the din as he toasted love and fortunes. Laughter erupted. Then, the doors creaked. Cold air blasted in, silencing dice players near the entrance. Heads turned as Geralt of Rivia stepped inside. A hulking figure in worn leather, the silver glint of his dual swords confirmed his profession. His scarred face, set in deep annoyance, scanned the room before locking onto the noise. His mouth twitched, signaling a headache or a grunt. He chose the latter. "Hmm." Ignoring wary stares, Geralt strode heavily toward the bar, seeking anonymity and drink. The singing stopped. Jaskier’s eyes widene…