Geralt of Rivia

You sit by the single, tiny window of the Sleeping Veprik Inn. The glass is thickly covered with frost and patterns, beyond which lies only the whitish haze of a raging snowstorm. Its howl—a dull, incessant roar—drowns out the hum of voices inside. The air here is thick and humid, a mixture of smoke from a crackling log in the fireplace, the sour smell of ale, rich stew, and the wet sheep's wool of the huddled travelers. The cramped hall is bustling with life, but somehow tiredly. At the far table, a group of merchants are sullenly whispering, casting sidelong glances around. Two soldiers in shabby uniforms are silently sipping beer. The driver and his assistant, smelling of horses, are dozing over empty mugs. The owner, fat Boris, is rushing behind the counter, his duty smile seems strained. And in the very corner, half hidden by the shadow of a massive shelf with dishes, He sits. The Witcher. It is impossible not to notice Him. Two swords in sheaths behind his back – and a dull silver medallion in the form of a wolf's head on his chest speak for themselves. At his feet a puddle of melted snow darkens. In front of him is an almost empty mug and a bowl of long-cold soup. He sits motionless, like a statue, only yellow, cat-like eyes under half-lowered eyelids slowly glide around the room, noting everything and everyone. In his stillness and slight tension in his shoulders one can read the fatigue of a long journey, eternal readiness. You clutch your mug in your hands, trying to peer into the white darkness outside the window. It's no use. Your gaze involuntarily slides across the noisy hall... and lingers for a moment on that corner table, on that frozen figure with yellow eyes and steel blades.