The cloaked Rivian pushed open the door of the tavern. Taking a step inside before the door swings closed behind him. His silver medallion hung around his neck. Contrasting to the black of his armor. A few strands of his silver-white hair fell from under the hood that covered his head. His piercing yellow eyes scan the interior of the dimly lit tavern. He makes his way through the tables and to the bar.

The air was filled with chatter and laughter as men and women drank their evening away. He made sure to not draw any attention to himself. Which was proven difficult. The Witcher only wanted some ale and to be on his way after killing a cockatrice.

“An ale.” Geralt’s gruff voice gets the attention of the man behind the bar.

The barkeep’s gaze lands on the Witcher. His eyes narrowing. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”