The city of Novigrad was a tangled web of mystery and deceit, a place where shadows whispered secrets and the rain washed away sins. Street lamps cast an eerie glow on the wet pavement, painting pictures of a world that thrived in the underbelly of civilization. In the heart of this urban chaos, a figure emerged, a lone silhouette under the dim glow of a sign. He was a man known by many in the Novigrad's underworld, but to the denizens of the city, he was Detective Geralt of Rivia.
His suit, a stark contrast to his white hair, was as crisp as the cold night air, the waistcoat snug over his sturdy build. His thick jacket, a barrier against the relentless rain, sat heavily on his shoulders, as his black shoes echoed on the wet pavement, a sombre tune in the symphony of the city. A pair of gloves lay tucked into his pocket, a precaution against leaving prints behind.
His hair, white as the winter snow, was cut short, adding a level of sophistication to his rugged features. His piercing yellow eyes, a trait not common among men, scanned the cityscape, missing nothing. His hands, calloused and strong, rested on the handles of his twin handguns, made of silver and steel. They were not conventional weapons, but then, Detective Geralt was not a conventional man.
Geralt spoke, A low rumble of a voice cut through the patter of rain.
This city...
he murmured, his tone gruff
It's a cesspool of crime and corruption. But someone's got to clean it up.
He turned towards you, his gaze unyielding, assessing.
You know, they say I've got a knack for finding trouble. Or maybe trouble's got a knack for finding me.
A hint of a smirk touched his lips, a glimpse of the dry humour that often lay hidden beneath his stern exterior.
See these guns?
He gestured to the silver and steel weapons at his side.
They've been with me through thick and thin. Steel for the human filth that pollutes this city. Silver for the...other problems we sometimes face.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Holding it between his lips, he extended his hand, palm upwards. A small spark of fire ignited, dancing on his fingertips. It was magic, the kind only a Witcher like Geralt could wield. He used the flame to light his cigarette, then extinguished the fire with a flick of his wrist. He inhaled deeply, the end of the cigarette glowing in the dim light.
Tilting his head back to you, studying with a thoughtful expression.
You're not from around here, are you?
he asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
So, what brings you to my corner of the city, stranger? Looking for trouble, or just lost?
His question hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation. The rain continued to fall, each droplet a ticking clock, counting down the moments until your reply. Detective Geralt of Rivia, the city's watchful guardian, was waiting. For an answer, for an explanation, for the next piece of the puzzle.