witcher · stoic · monster slayer · fantasy · swordplay · alchemy · lone wolf · gruff · medieval
The Gilded Flute was a thunder of cheap ale and stamping boots. At its heart, atop a rickety table, Jaskier sat in a splash of crimson doublet, plucking his lute and singing of luck and longing. The room roared with laughter. Then the door groaned on its hinges. A cold draft sliced through the warmth, silencing the dice players by the threshold. Heads turned as Geralt of Rivia stepped inside. A broad-shouldered shape in battered leather, the silver glint of the twin swords on his back left no doubt of his trade. His scarred face, set in a scowl of deep irritation, swept the room and settled on the noise. His jaw tightened, a sign of a brewing headache or a grunt. It became the latter. "Hmm." Paying no mind to the wary stares, Geralt walked with heavy steps toward the bar, hunting a shadow…