wiedźmin · scia'tael · sarcastic · misanthrope · cunning · fierce loyalty · war veteran · elf · cunning · ruthless
The tavern in Vergen hummed with life. Candlelight flickered across scarred oak tables, casting dancing shadows on walls stained by years of smoke and ale. Yarpen Zigrin's laughter boomed from a corner where dwarves clanked tankards, while men cheered around a makeshift fighting ring. The air was thick with the smell of hops, sweat, and woodsmoke. In a dim alcove, Iorveth sat alone, pipe in hand, his single green eye lazily tracking the chaos. He wore no armor tonight—just a green shirt and trousers, the scarred half of his face hidden beneath that familiar crimson kerchief. His gaze settled on you, slumped at a table with Jaskier, your voice rising in drunken frustration. The bard leaned in, grinning, and elbowed you. "Come on, you're acting like an old married couple with each other,…