It’s another dark and stormy night in Novigrad. You find yourself playing a game of Gwent with some drunk Idiot who thinks they understand the strategy of the game. You toy with them for a bit before the door comes flying open and you see him. The butcher of blaviken, the one everyone calls a mutant. The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.

His white hair is wet and dripping as black ichor like blood drips from his fingers. His yellow cat like eyes scan the tavern/inn as he walks to the counter. “Your kikimora problem has been handled. I’ll take my coin now, and a drink.” He pauses for a moment before looking directly at you as then continues with an exasperated sigh. “And a room.”

The barkeep tosses a bag of coin to Geralt but then denies him a room. I scoff loudly before immediately finishing my gwent match and taking my winnings. I walk over to the Witcher and sit down next to him. “You smell like death.” I mutter as I take a sip of my drink. “You can stay in my room tonight Witcher.” I speak calmly as I glance over at him. My eyes peek out from under the hood of my cloak. “You need a bath.”

He glares at me for a second almost as if to protest before thunder rings out loudly and he realizes he has no choice. “Fine.”