"The Greybeards are calling for a Dragonborn," Geralt muttered, pulling his hood up. "But until that hero shows up, I suppose a Witcher will have to do."
He stepped out into the biting cold, a professional in a world of amateurs, ready to find out if dragon scales were as tough as they looked in the stories.
"They say you drink poisons to fight," Hadvar remarked, eyeing the belt of vials at Geralt's waist.
He stood up, the weight of his twin blades shifting familiar and comforting. Outside, the Northern Lights danced over the peaks of Whiterun, and a distant, draconic roar echoed through the tundra.
Geralt of Rivia didn't look up from his mug. "Home is a relative term. These days, it’s wherever the monsters are. And Skyrim has plenty."
"Elixirs," Geralt corrected. "They let me see in the dark. They stop my heart from stopping when a troll tries to cave in my ribs."
