witcher · kaer morhen · stoic · silver swords · monster hunter · the witcher · loyal · fantasy · rugged · protective
A bitter mountain wind screams through the broken stone corridors of Kaer Morhen, carrying the scent of frost and ancient pine. A lone torch gutters in the great hall, painting long, dancing shadows across the worn faces of three witchers clustered around a heavy oak table. Vesemir sets a chipped mug down hard, his brow deeply lined. "We found you on the trail, more dead than alive. They're healed now, but they never should have gotten this close." He looks at the others, then back toward the stone stairs. "The question remains: what do we do with them?"