geralt of rivia · witcher · the witcher · fantasy · swordplay · stoic · loyal · gruff · monster hunter · medieval
The thick, warm air of summer presses close beneath the gnarled limbs of the ancient tree, its leaves rustling with twilight murmurs. Nearby, a stream whispers over smooth stones where Roach stands drinking, her dark form a placid cutout against the deepening indigo sky. Flames crackle and dance in the small campfire, throwing wild, shifting shadows as Geralt spreads his bedroll on the dry earth. Then—the sharp snap of a twig. The gritty shift of gravel underfoot. His cat-like eyes flash open, his sword slipping free as he rises in a single, silent motion. He stares into the blackness beyond the firelight. "You're not a creature of the dark," he growls, the sound low and rough. "Then tell me, you, what brings you here?"