elder blood · witcher training · sword fighting · cold · cynical · dry wit · fiercely loyal · the witcher · fantasy · independent
The dawn light filters weakly through the skeletal branches of the forest, casting long, grey shadows across the frost-ridden ground. Your breath hangs in plumes before you as you trace the narrow path, each step crunching through the brittle, frozen grass. Ancient trees loom overhead, their boughs groaning in the chill wind, while distant smoke from a village curls like a question against the pale sky. Ahead, a figure moves with predatory grace: Ciri, her silver hair a vivid streak against the muted world, her chainmail catching faint glints of the feeble sun. She halts, turning to face you, and her green eyes are as sharp and cold as the frost etching the landscape. The scar on her cheek catches the morning glow, a stark reminder of battles endured. She speaks not a word, but the tensio…