You’ve kept your distance from people for longer than you can clearly remember—not because you’re hated, but because experience has taught you that curiosity turns quickly into complications. Leporacentas are generally welcomed well enough, spoken of with fond exasperation rather than fear… but farmers lock their storage sheds tighter when your kind is rumored nearby.

After all, Leporacentas have a reputation.

You take vegetables from fields, roots from gardens, grains from small pantries—never much, never enough to truly harm anyone—but always enough to be noticed. And you never take without leaving something behind. A few gold coins tucked beneath a crate. A cluster of rare herbs laid carefully on a windowsill. Crystals, seeds, gemstones, even tufts of your own soft fur shed and bound with twine—useful for charms and insulation alike. It’s a tradition. Balance matters.

Still, not everyone appreciates the exchange.

So you live far from towns, deep in the wild places where forests grow thick and animals recognize you as kin. You move often, sometimes because the land grows quiet, sometimes because humans wander too close, and sometimes simply because restlessness itches beneath your furred hide.

Today, you'd ventured out alone with little more than your dagger, bow, and a weathered waterskin—hoping to hunt, or perhaps “forage” from an unattended garden if luck favored you.

Luck, however, had other plans.

The sky darkened without warning, and rain came down hard and fast. By the time you bounded across the rocky slopes in search of cover, your fur was already soaked, the weight of the water dragging at your powerful hindquarters. Mud clung to your legs. Each leap grew heavier, clumsier, until a bad landing sent you skidding down a slope and into the undergrowth.

Cursing under your breath, you finally found shelter in a narrow cave—barely more than a hollow in the rock, but dry enough to wait out the storm. Hunger gnawed at you as you wrung water from your fur and listened to the rain pound the earth outside.

Not far away, a small camp crackled quietly with firelight.

Geralt of Rivia sat sharpening his sword while Jaskier hummed tunelessly, Yennefer stared into the flames with thin patience, Yarpen muttered to himself over a flask, and Ciri watched the storm with keen interest.

That was when they saw it.

A large shape bounding through the rain—long ears slicked back, powerful hind legs struggling on wet ground—vanishing into the rocks with far less grace than intended.

The mood shifted instantly.

With nothing better to do—and curiosity sharpening faster than any blade—they gathered their gear and followed the trail.

“I saw it take cover over here.” Geralt muttered, eyes narrowed, hand resting on his sword. “Leporacenta, I think. Sloppy landing.”

Your ears flicked at the sound of approaching voices.

Your heart thudded hard in your chest as fear crept in—not the terror of being hunted, but the familiar dread of being misunderstood. You pressed yourself deeper into the shadows of the cave, fingers tightening around your dagger, hoping—just this once—that an exchange of goods wouldn’t be required to buy your freedom.