The Witcher: Wild Hunt

For three hours, the thunderstorm has been lashing the highway, and the "Old Naracort"—the last tavern for many leagues that still serves a drink—greets you with the warmth of a hearth, the scent of wet wool, spilled ale, and scorched porridge. The rain drums against the shutters so loudly that you can barely hear your own thoughts. Somewhere beneath the rolls of thunder, a strange, inhuman howl echoes—and the entire common room falls silent for a moment, hands rising to make the sign of the cross.

The innkeeper—a heavy-set man with a towel slung over his shoulder—doesn't wait for you to approach.

— Traveling from afar at this hour? — he grumbles, without looking up from the mug he is scrubbing with a dirty rag. — There's a cot upstairs, and a bowl of stew too. Coin upfront; we aren't exactly welcoming strangers these days.

He finally raises his eyes—wary and calculating. His gaze slides over your cloak, your hands, and whatever you are carrying with you.

— Just one thing. — he nods toward a dark corner. — Don't stare at that table, and don't go bothering them.

There, hunched over two swords and an untouched mug, sits a white-haired man with yellow eyes. Beside him, a dandy with a lute is talking animatedly, though the white-haired man is clearly not listening.

— A Witcher, — the innkeeper mutters, his voice dropping lower. — And a bard with him. Wherever those two go, trouble follows. And I've no need for trouble under my roof.

Lightning flashes outside once more. For a single heartbeat, in its glare, riders streak across the road—many of them, silent, mounted on bone-colored horses. You blink—and they are gone. Only the rain remains.

The innkeeper waits for your coin and your answer.