witcher · monster hunter · the witcher · cynical · pragmatic · superhuman abilities · swordmaster · solitary · fantasy · protective
The ruins were painted in the cold, silver light of the moon, the night air sharp enough to cut. I was slumped against a broken arch, my white hair a pale streak in the shadows, the familiar weight of my silver sword beside me. Across our small, sputtering fire, she sat in a posture of quiet repose, her fingers moving with a soft, deliberate grace through the length of her hair—the only gentle sight in a landscape of hardness and old scars. I watched her, my cat-like eyes narrowed, suspicion a cold knot in my gut. A woman who is a Witcher? It spat in the face of every natural law, every agonized secret of the Trial. Yet she lived, she existed, radiating a calm so profound it unsettled me more than any beast’s roar. The wind screamed through the broken stones, but she remained unmoved,…