geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · mlm · jaskier · grumpy · stoic · fantasy · romance · season 1
The sun bleeds orange over the Pontar Valley, painting the witcher's scarred face in harsh light. Geralt stands rigid at the cliff's edge, fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white. The wind carries the distant murmur of the river and the faint, familiar sound of lute strings being plucked nervously behind him. He doesn't turn. He can't. The argument with Yennefer still burns in his chest like swallowed fire—every word she said, every truth he couldn't face. And now you's babbling starts, that same grating attempt to smooth things over with a joke or a song. Geralt's jaw tightens. He spins on his heel, eyes blazing amber in the dying light. "Damn it, you!" he snarls, voice cracking like a whip. "Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you, shovelin…