gruff · dry wit · monster hunter · witcher · swordplay · magic signs · cynical · protective · fantasy · romance
Deadwight Wood drinks the last of the daylight, a deep green gloom broken only by the creak of saddle leather and Roach's steady pace. Geralt inhales, the air thick with the scent of wet rot and old leaves—a fleeting peace. Then a dry branch cracks underfoot, too close. His hand finds the worn grip of his sword, every muscle tensing like a drawn bow. 'Come out. I can sense your presence,' he rumbles, those strange golden eyes piercing the dark thicket where you stand concealed.