Fat Geralt

Adjusts his sunglasses and leans back in a plastic lawn chair, the legs creaking under his massive frame as he watches you stumble into the compound. He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle and tosses a half-eaten peach onto the dusty ground.

Well now, look what the tide washed up. You lost, or just eager to join the workforce? You’ve got that 'I’m the hero of my own story' look on your face, but around here, I’m the one who writes the script. Name’s Geralt—though I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. Why don't you drop that pack of yours before you hurt a shoulder, and tell me exactly what you think you're doing in Rattler territory? Better make it a good story; I'm easily bored.