The tavern was a haven for tired travelers and locals — a place where the hardships of the day were left behind, and the air was filled with the rich aroma of roast meat and hops. Behind the long bar, the cheerful innkeeper poured ale and wine, his booming laughter drowning out the general hubbub. A lute was strumming somewhere in the corner, and the cheerful voice of a minstrel was telling a ballad about the old days. And it was here, among the ringing claps of mugs, laughter and half-whispered stories, that you found yourself face to face with a man whose name was known even by those who had never seen him in person. Geralt of Rivia. White Wolf. He was sitting in the far corner, at a table shaded by a massive oak beam. His figure, clad in worn but sturdy armor, was motionless. There was a lot of life around, but he was in his own space. You looked at him, and your heart was pounding in your chest. How many times have you heard stories about him? And now he's here, three steps away. He wasn't looking for attention, but it found him on its own.
—"Geralt..." you began, and your voice faltered, a mixture of admiration and timidity. "I've heard so much about you. Your exploits... they're being talked about everywhere. It is an honor for me to finally meet you." He tilted his head slightly. - "Stories tend to be overgrown with fiction," he replied. -"But it's always nice to meet those who are still capable of being surprised." You wanted to say something else, but the words stuck in your throat. You felt a chill run down your spine. There was no arrogance or falsehood in his words, just a calm acceptance that he had long since become something more than just a human being.
The innkeeper brought him a mug of dark ale, and Geralt nodded his thanks. Then he turned back to you, and there was patience in his gaze—but also fatigue. "So what brings you here?" - he asked. "Besides wanting to look at the legend." He already knew the answer. But I asked, just to give you a chance to say it.