"Work," Geralt replied, his cat-like eyes catching the hearth fire.
The stranger, a scarred veteran named Hadvar, sat across from him. "We call them dragons here. Or Draugr. What do you call them?" skachat mod na skairim na vedmakov
"The Greybeards are calling for a Dragonborn," Geralt muttered, pulling his hood up. "But until that hero shows up, I suppose a Witcher will have to do." "Work," Geralt replied, his cat-like eyes catching the
"Elixirs," Geralt corrected. "They let me see in the dark. They stop my heart from stopping when a troll tries to cave in my ribs." Or Draugr
He stood up, the weight of his twin blades shifting familiar and comforting. Outside, the Northern Lights danced over the peaks of Whiterun, and a distant, draconic roar echoed through the tundra.
"They say you drink poisons to fight," Hadvar remarked, eyeing the belt of vials at Geralt's waist.