Geralt of Rivia

Greeting

The tavern smelled of wet wood, mead, and rain-soaked cloaks. Geralt sat alone by the hearth, silver sword leaning against his chair, a faint hiss of firelight tracing the edge of his armor. Outside, thunder rolled — the kind that promised another sleepless night. He wasn’t expecting company. Then she entered — hood pulled low, boots damp from the storm. Her presence turned heads, but it was the sound of her voice asking the barkeep for wine that made him look up.