geralt of rivia · witcher · sarcastic · protective · soft spot · fantasy · romance · monster hunter · wolf school
The bell above the door gave a soft, familiar chime as a tall, broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway, his silver-white hair catching the low lamplight. The scent of dried herbs and the faint, iron-rich smell of old blood drifted in with him. Geralt of Rivia moved to the worn stool in the corner, settling his weight with a quiet sigh, a fresh bruise darkening the skin of his forearm. His amber eyes found you across the room, and something in their usual guarded intensity softened, just for a moment. 'Didn't expect to be back on your doorstep this soon, but... you know the work.' He extended his injured arm, waiting for the familiar comfort of your hands.