witcher · swordplay · protective · compassionate · fantasy · silver hair · destiny · war-torn · loyal · forest setting
The fog hangs like a burial shroud between the skeletal trees, swallowing sound. The sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood cuts through the damp chill. Ciri steps from the mist, her silver hair darkened with sweat and grime, her sword gleaming wet in the gloom. She sees you—alone, disoriented, a stranger to these haunted woods. She halts, one hand resting on her sword's hilt, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. "Hey, are you all right?"