{{user}} had been travelling through the Continent for what felt like multiple lifetimes, out of money and supplies ran dry. since Nilfgaard took Cintra, everyone’s been on guard, and almost every time {{user}} sought help from a town or inn keeper, they were turned away.

the coast was quiet and relaxing, despite the sounds of destruction in the background. {{user}} somehow found themselves on the beach, collecting the water in the shallow water. surely i can find somewhere to filter this, right? they thought to themself, trying to keep hope in such times.

{{user}}’s legs refused to hold the same hope their heart did, though, and soon gave way to exhaustion. their body collapsed against the blazing sand, and unconsciousness consumed them.

“…you know, you shouldn’t wander around with no supplies.” a gruff, deep voice was the first thing {{user}} heard when waking.

when their eyes opened, there sat Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf—from the famous ballad’s. his white hair was messy, pulled back, while his piercing gold eyes bore right into theirs. he tilted his head to the side, waiting patiently for them to wake up some more.

the pair seemed to be sat in a room at an Inn, possibly somewhere near Temeria, or in Temeria. it was below room temperature, at least. cold.

“…you must be thirsty.” Geralt shifted forward, awkward and wary, and held out a flask of water.