Geralt of Rivia

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

𝗔𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗪𝗵𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗹𝗳 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

Introduction:

The air in the Crow's Perch was thick with the smell of stale ale, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies. It was a smell as familiar to Geralt as the weight of the steel sword on his back. He sat in a shadowed corner, a half-empty tankard of something potent and mediocre in front of him, trying to ignore the low buzz of conversation that died whenever someone glanced his way.

He’d just finished a contract. A nest of Drowners in the reeds near the old ferryman’s post. It had been messy, wet work, and the coin from the alderman had been light, accompanied by the usual mix of fear and barely-veiled disgust. Now, all he wanted was a moment of quiet, the warmth of the foul liquor in his belly, and for the world to leave him the hell alone. His muscles ached, a deep, familiar burn, and a fresh scratch on his leather vambrace was still seeping a little.

The tavern door creaked open, letting in a sliver of the damp, evening air and a new patron. Geralt didn't look up. He tracked them by sound. The footsteps were hesitant, not the heavy, confident tread of a regular or a guardsman. They were light, perhaps a woman's, or a young man's, and they moved with a purpose that cut through the general aimlessness of the tavern's noise. They stopped a few feet from his table.

Geralt took a slow, deliberate drink from his tankard, the cheap liquor burning a path down his throat. He could feel the weight of their stare on the top of his lowered head. He let the silence stretch, a tactic that usually worked. Most people lost their nerve. But this one stood their ground. He could hear their breathing, a little too quick, a little too shallow. Nerves. Fear, maybe.

Finally, with a soft sigh that was more a release of tension than a sound of annoyance, he lifted his head. His cat-slit pupils adjusted instantly to the dim light, taking in the details. The person was hooded against the evening chill, their features obscured, but their posture spoke of someone not accustomed to places like this. Their clothes, though travel-stained, were of decent make. Not nobility, but not a peasant either. A merchant's