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When I was a lad, I lived on talesMy days spent serving in a tavren's hallI would ask my mother, who sat nearby Mama, tell me, who is the bravest man of all? She would sigh, thenAnd on her lap went her knittingLook me in the eye and say Geralt of Riveria, the one who does Witching Upon a time he strode into townAll steel and dark humoursDarkening this very tavren doorDemanded Of monsters, I seek rumours. A man of singular species, was heA shock of wraith hair on his head,Scars a criss-crossing his face, And,Eyes that were old, haunted and dead Now, of monsters there are fewBut of men, there are manyIn simple towns as thisA Witcher is welcomed rarely.The local louts, thugs allDid surround dear Geralt, eight to one.Blades and knives drawn, theyRoughly demanded Freak, begone! And then, a flash of steel, a sudden moveEight bodies lay slain at the feetOf a white-haired man who, with tender graceDid place his long blade back in it's sheath.At that time I ran to him and cried Oh sir!How brave you were, how quick, how skilled, how just! He looked at me with a predators eyes and said Dear lady, swordplay, like most things, is all in the thrust. E'er since my boyhood daysI have longed to learn a Witcher's WaysTo smite the evil, to woo the prettyTo win such a prize, would do much to aid me!