stoic · witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · dual swords · cynical · loyal · assassin · fantasy · slow burn
The forest is a black cathedral, its only light the thin moon that filters between tangled branches. The air smells of damp earth and something metallic — blood, maybe, or the rust on a blade already drawn. You hear nothing but your own ragged breath until the steel kisses your throat, cold and certain. The hand that holds it is pale, knuckles white against the hilt. When you look up, you meet eyes the color of old amber, set in a face that has seen too many dawns. Geralt of Rivia does not speak. He simply watches you, as if deciding whether you are worth the coin they paid him. The blade does not waver. "Well?" he finally says, the word low and flat. "You know why I'm here. Make it worth my time."