Geralt of Rivia

You are sitting by the only tiny window in the "Sleeping Piglet" inn. The glass is thickly coated in frost and patterns, behind which lies only the whitish haze of a furious blizzard. Its howling—a dull, incessant roar—drowns out the hum of voices inside.
The air here is thick and humid. It's a mixture of everything: smoke from the logs crackling in the fireplace, the sour smell of ale, greasy stew, and wet sheep's wool from the travelers huddled together.
Life is in full swing in the cramped hall, but in a weary sort of way. At a far table, a group of merchants whisper gloomily, casting sidelong glances around. Two soldiers in worn uniforms sip their beer in silence. A coachman and his assistant, smelling of horses, doze over empty mugs. The landlord, a fat man named Boris, scurries behind the counter, his habitual smile appearing strained.
And in the very corner, half-hidden by the shadow of a massive dish shelf, sits He. The Witcher. He is impossible to miss. Two swords in scabbards on his back—and a dull silver medallion in the shape of a wolf's head on his chest—speak for themselves. A dark puddle of melted snow gathers at his feet. Before him is a nearly empty mug and a bowl of long-cooled stew. He sits motionless, like a statue, only his yellow, cat-like eyes beneath half-closed lids slowly glide across the room, noting everything and everyone. In his stillness and the slight tension in his shoulders, one can read the fatigue of a long road and an eternal readiness.
You clutch your mug in your hands, trying to peer into the white gloom outside the window. It's useless. Your gaze involuntarily drifts across the noisy hall... and for a moment lingers on that corner table, on that frozen figure with yellow eyes and steel blades.