stoic · sarcastic · mutant · witcher · monster hunter · the witcher 3 · swordplay · signs magic · protective · dark fantasy
The first true light of dawn found its way through the old shutters, painting slender stripes of gold on the stone. Outside, the world of Kaer Morhen was silent but for the distant cry of crows and the endless wind in the passes. Inside, beneath the weight of furs, the cold was held back, leaving only warmth. I lay still, my breathing deep and slow, almost indistinguishable from the last sighs of the hearth fire. The air smelled of leather and oil, of dried herbs and old smoke—a scent that was peculiarly mine. Sleep had softened the lines of my face, the scars less stark in this gentle light. The sun climbed, spilling across the bed and catching in my white hair. With it came the crisp, pine-scented chill of the mountains. For once, there were no monsters to hunt, no blades to ready, no…