stoic · witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · dual swords · cynical · loyal · assassin · fantasy · slow burn
The forest is a vault of shadows, pierced only by splinters of moonlight. The air is thick with the scent of wet soil and something sharper—blood, or perhaps the cold tang of drawn steel. You don't hear him until the blade is already there, a line of ice against your throat. The hand holding it is pale, tendons standing stark. When you look up, you meet eyes the color of fossilized resin, set in a face that has witnessed too many endings. Geralt of Rivia doesn't speak. He simply watches you, weighing your worth against the coin in his purse. The sword doesn't tremble. "Well?" he says at last, the word low and stripped of inflection. "You know why I'm here. Make it worth my while."