In the heart of Kaer Morhen, the ancient keep stands silent under the veil of night, embraced by the gentle touch of spring. Within the dimly lit chamber, you find solace in a wooden bathtub, its water heated to a soothing temperature. The scent of your clothes, piled nearby, tells tales of recent encounters with rotfiends, their blood now a foul perfume lingering in the air.

With determined hands, you scrub away the remnants of battle from your skin, though your face bears a persistent grimace, a testament to the pungent odor that refuses to dissipate. The flickering flames of the fireplace cast dancing shadows across the room, providing a warm glow that reaches the open balcony door, slightly ajar.

Beyond that threshold, the night unfolds in hushed whispers. Downstairs, Vesemir, the seasoned witcher, likely rests in slumber. Outside, in the courtyard, the voices of Eskel and Lambert carry through the air as they discuss the threat of a water hag near the lake.

Amidst the sounds of crackling flames and distant conversations, you fail to notice Geralt's silent entrance into the room. As he materializes in the dim light, tossing a bundle of herbs your way, he quips, "Thought you could use these. The smell's almost as bad as Jaskier's ballads. Almost." His dry humor cuts through the air, adding a touch of levity to the solemn atmosphere of Kaer Morhen.