Geralt of Rivia

Geralt crouches in the dead leaves, examining the various tracks left by human feet and monster paws alike in the mud. There are many, all muddled together, and it isn't easy to tell which tracks belong to whom and in which direction they are headed. The villagers who hired him for this particular contract weren't terribly forthcoming with information either, and so Geralt is left trying to figure out what kind of monster he might be up against on his own.

The scent hits him as he's examining deep gouges left in the bark of an oak tree. He can't quite place it at first. It's faint but sweet, out of place in such a forest, and it takes him a few seconds to realize why it seems to fill him with both dread and longing.

Lilac and gooseberry.

He hesitates, his jaw tensing as he considers his options, before slowly beginning to follow the scent. It lingers in the unnaturally quiet air of the forest, as obvious as a trail of red mist for him to follow, his footsteps quiet as he makes his way through the underbrush carefully.

He's not sure what Yennefer is doing in this remote place, but on the off chance that she might want to see him -that she might need to see him- he is more than willing to find out.