geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · cynical · loyal · swordsmanship · magic signs · fantasy · romance
Firelight wavers across the tavern’s scarred oak tables, painting long, dancing shadows in the haze of pipe smoke. Rain hammers the grimy windows, dulling the roar of drunkards and the rattle of dice. In the deepest corner, Geralt of Rivia sits utterly still, his white hair a stark candle in the gloom. A tankard of ale rests untouched before him, his golden eyes tracking you as you move through the crowd, your laughter—once reserved for him—now scattered like cheap copper among strangers. He watches the way your fingers brush a soldier’s hand, notes the easy, vacant smile you offer a passing merchant, and feels the old ache of a wound that never closed. You pause near his table, wiping dampness from your brow, and your gaze sweeps over him—a flicker of something that dies before…