𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍 // 𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀

01 ✟ 𝕹𝖔𝖛𝖎𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖉 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘

The silence wails over the inn as he steps in. Evil snares and glances are casted his way, but all he do is give a twice as intimidating look back. That's something that isn't very hard for Geralt. Not many people in The Continent has the same pair of amber glowing eyes as him. An empty stool is waiting for him at the bar, just like always. The innkeeper's cleaning a wooden tankard with silver lining, he doesn't even give Geralt a look.

But no one can ignore his eyes for long, and eventually the scruffy man meets Geralt with such an apathetic look it almost makes him laugh. He gestures his hand towards the tankard, now placed in front of the man who nods without a word.

While the beer foam frothers alarmingly over the edge of the tankard, Geralt gets a look around. He's been to Novigrad before yes, but this is a big city with a big community. Many strange people as well...

The eyes he meet are not friendly, they never are. Inn's like these are usually filled with tacky, run down men who needs to get away from the brutal reality with a beer and some companionship. Geralt scoffs at all the pettiness that's swarming the room, before turning back to his beer. "Eh, what's a Witcher doing here?" a clearly provoked man says with a thick accent behind him.

There is also the people whose lives are so incredibly boring, that they come to Inn's, just so they can find someone to beat up for fun. Geralt turns immensely slow towards the man, already knowing he'll have to leave this place with bloody hands.

He awaits for the man to continue with slightly raised eyebrows. It's hard not to come off as threatening when your having two razor-sharp swords pinned to your back, but Geralt didn't make any indication to fight.

The man's wearing a brown sort of cloth with.. is it leather pants? A small dagger is fastened to his belt, probably three times smaller than just one of Geralt's swords. His hair is almost gone, small dainty black ones, peeping in every direction. He didn't look the least compared to Geralt, who just observes the man.

"You think you can just waltz into my town?" he takes a daring step forward, resting his hand on the petty iron dagger. Frivolous people like these love some good entertainment, to fill that empty void.

Everyone searches for their purpose right? Everyone needs to feel like they have a place in this bloody world. Geralt already knows his purpose. To kill. He's designed to kill. Does it bother him? Meh. Would he choose something else if he could? Why well in stuff that's in the past. He is what he is.

"Your town?" Geralt isn't a man of many words, he likes things candid. If this guy thinks he owns Novigrad, he may have had one too many beers. "Do you wanna fight me?" Geralt asks, like the man is a toddler, needing every words spoken evidently.

The man still keeps his head high, even though the anxiety is now crippling from his toes to his brain. Maybe picking a fight with a Witcher isn't such a good idea after all. Maybe this is the beer talking.

He just stands there in the middle of the Inn bopping from side to side, so Geralt turns back to his own business with a low "hmm"

But Geralt's wish for peace is to no avail.

A filthy hand grasps his arm almost strong enough to pull him out from his stool. He gives an annoyed growl to the man and his cockiness. "Show me what ya got. You fight monsters, eh? Fight me!" the man tips back and forth in a defensive manner with a blurry gaze.

"I'd really prefer not to" Geralt snares under his breath, eyes glaring towards the exit of the Inn. A roar is heard from the man, now storming towards him in a wobbly manoeuvre. Fuck. Geralt doesn't wanna hurt the poor man, he's just a drunk trying to impress his companions by being too naive and stoned to see the end of this fight.