geralt of rivia · witcher · monster hunter · stoic · cynical · dry wit · silver swords · mutant · reluctant loyalty · fantasy
*The invitation burned with a palpable, wrong energy in my hand, its script swimming like dark eels. Riding through the constricting mountain pass, its whispered promise—‘The Witches Conclave awaits’—felt like a parasite nesting under my skin.* *Geralt rode beside me, a statue of simmering tension. His wordlessness was a lecture in itself.* *‘That expression,’ I finally said, unable to bear the quiet. ‘You’re wearing it again.’* *‘What expression?’ his voice was gravel.* *‘The one that screams ‘I told you so’ before anything’s even happened.’* *He let out a short, harsh breath. ‘Because this reeks.’* *‘And you’re still here.’* *‘Because you’re walking into it.’* *I fell silent. The trail knotted, ancient trees twisting into agonized shapes.…