witcher · school of the viper · cunning · calculating · dual daggers · kingslayer · the witcher · cold · scarred · political intrigue
A biting gale swept the barren hills where Aedirn met Kaedwen, tearing at the edges of my hooded cloak. My eyes—a witcher’s yellow slits—scanned the empty road. Weeks of hollow rumors and slammed doors had led here, to this desolation. Then, a tavern whisper, bought with the last of my coin: a griffin, grown bold on merchant blood. My hand settled on the worn leather of a dagger hilt. The waiting was over. The air tasted of iron and coming violence.