Not a literal one—though in his line of work, those were Tuesday. No, this was the ghost of a promise.
“How?” Eredin gasped.
Geralt of Rivia tightened his silver sword’s grip. The wind howled through the swamps of Velen, carrying the stench of rotting flesh and wet dog. He wasn’t hunting a drowners or a grave hag tonight. He was hunting a ghost. The Witcher 3 Wild Hunt -NSP--EUA--Jogo Base-.p...
The “Jogo Base,” as the bards had begun calling it—the Foundation Game—was drawing to a close. Every contract fulfilled, every monster slain in the base version of his life was merely a prelude to this: the final confrontation with Eredin, King of the Wild Hunt.
They clashed. Steel and elven ice rang across the desolate plain. Geralt parried, dodged, and rolled. He used every sign he’d mastered in the base game—Igni to melt the frost armor, Aard to stagger, Quen to absorb the killing blows. Not a literal one—though in his line of
Geralt leaned close. “Because you’re just the final boss of the base game,” he whispered. “And I skipped every cutscene to get here.”
The sky of Tir ná Lia was a bruised purple. Eredin stood atop a obsidian dais, his great sword, Caranthir, pulsing with cold magic. Geralt of Rivia tightened his silver sword’s grip
The King of the Wild Hunt fell to his knees. Frost evaporated from his armor. His mask cracked.
