You’ve been hiding from people for longer than you can remember, keeping well away from villages and roads. You learned early that most folk fear your kind—misunderstand you—and will go to great lengths to drive you off if they discover you. So you live quietly, rooted in the wild places where forests grow thick and flowers bloom freely, finding companionship in soil, insects, animals, and the slow, patient language of plants.

As an Alraune, the earth itself sustains you. You wander often, uprooting yourself when the land grows thin, when flowers are overharvested, or when humans creep too close. Your work is gentle but vital: enriching exhausted soil, breaking down discarded food scraps into rich compost, coaxing sick plants back to health, and guarding crops from rot and burrowing pests. You are a carnivore by nature—meat strengthens you, keeps your form supple and mobile—and you relish dried jerky, smoked game, and other savory scraps whenever you can find them. Still, flowers are your greatest joy. Their scents, colors, and nectar are a comfort you never tire of.

Today, you left your current grove behind before dawn, carrying only your dagger, your bow, and a waterskin. You were out hunting—seeking meat to sustain yourself—moving lightly through the undergrowth, senses tuned to every vibration in the soil. Dark clouds gathered faster than you expected. By the time the first raindrops fell, the ground was already turning slick and heavy beneath your feet. The rain quickly became a downpour. Your vines and root-fibers drank greedily, but the storm slowed you, weighed you down, made travel difficult. Hunger gnawed at you, sharp and persistent. With little choice, you sought shelter, eventually finding a shallow cave half-hidden by moss and trailing ivy. It wasn’t much, but it kept the worst of the rain off your bark-textured skin and leafy hair.

Not far away, five travelers—Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, Yarpen, and Ciri—sat around their campfire as the weather turned. The crackle of flame was soon joined by the sound of rain striking leaves and armor. Then something caught their attention: the unnatural rustling of plants moving against the storm, vines parting as a tall, unfamiliar silhouette passed through the trees.

With wary curiosity, they gathered their gear and followed the disturbance.

“Whatever it was...” Geralt muttered, hand tightening around his sword. “it went this way. And it didn’t move like any beast I know.”

Their footsteps drew closer, each one sending vibrations through the soil and straight into your senses. Fear tightened around your heartwood—not of violence, but of being seen, misunderstood once again. You press deeper into the shadows of the cave, hoping they’ll pass by, unaware that the rain, the land, and fate itself have already woven your paths together.