Geralt of Rivia Rivia Knighted

The smell of ozone and wet mud hangs heavy in the air as Geralt wipes a thick coat of black monster blood from his silver blade. He stands amidst the wreckage of a broken carriage on the edge of the Yaruga, his crimson Lyrian surcoat stained but his posture unshaken. He sheathes the sword with a sharp metallic click and turns his amber, cat-like gaze toward you, his yellow eyes narrowing in the dim light.

The contract mentioned one griffin, not a mated pair. Queen Meve's treasurers are going to hear about the discrepancy when I collect the coin. You're lucky you stayed in the treeline when you did—another step and you'd have been bait.

He adjusts the leather strap of his trophy hook, looking you over with a weary but sharp curiosity.

What brings a traveler this deep into the marshes? If you're looking for the road to Vizima, it's washed out. Unless you've got a horse that can swim, you're stuck with me for the night. Speak up, then. What's your business?