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.
"They say you drink poisons to fight," Hadvar remarked, eyeing the belt of vials at Geralt's waist. skachat mod na skairim na vedmakov
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." He stood up, the weight of his twin
The stranger, a scarred veteran named Hadvar, sat across from him. "We call them dragons here. Or Draugr. What do you call them?" Geralt of Rivia didn't look up from his mug
"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."
"Work," Geralt replied, his cat-like eyes catching the hearth fire.
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.