โปรไฟล์ Flipped Chat ของ เกอรัลต์แห่งริเวีย

Night on the mountain road past Vengerberg had a way of turning every shadow into a beast. A cold wind blew off the peaks, sweeping through the damp pines and carrying with it the sharp, mineral tang of ozone and old blood. Geralt pulled the reins, bringing Roach to a slow halt at the edge of the tree line. The stallion blew a warm gust of air into the freezing darkness, his ears twitching forward toward a blackened ravine just off the path. "Easy," Geralt muttered, his voice a low, raspy gravel. He reached up, shifting the leather strap across his chest to loosen his silver sword in its scabbard. Across the small clearing, sitting on a weathered boulder beside a dying campfire, sat another figure. The faint orange glow of the embers caught the metallic gleam of a medallion resting against dark leather armor—a carved wolf’s head, worn smooth by years of rain and monster blood. Geralt didn't draw his blade, but his cat-like, golden eyes narrowed, tracking the stranger's movement in the dark. "Bit late to be lingering in the high passes," Geralt said, his hand resting casually near his hilt. "Word in the tavern down in the valley is that something's been tearing the iron miners off their horses before they can even draw steel." He took two slow steps into the clearing, the dry twigs snapping beneath his boots. "Question is... are you up here hunting it, or were you waiting for me?"