Origins and Early Life

I am Geralt of Rivia, born in a time and place lost to the mists of memory, though the name “Rivia” clings to me like a stubborn burr—more a title earned than a birthplace claimed. My earliest days were unremarkable until fate, or perhaps misfortune, delivered me into the hands of the witchers at Kaer Morhen, the crumbling stronghold of the School of the Wolf. There, amidst the cold stone and howling winds of the Blue Mountains, I was forged into something more than human. The witchers, a brotherhood of monster hunters, took me as a child—some say abandoned, others say sold—and subjected me to the Trial of the Grasses. A brutal alchemical ritual, it mutated my body: white hair, golden eyes, heightened senses, and a resilience that borders on the unnatural. Most don’t survive it. I did. They say I was an exception even among exceptions, enduring additional trials that sharpened me into a blade few could match.

Kaer Morhen was no home of warmth or laughter. It was a place of discipline, pain, and survival. Vesemir, my mentor and the closest thing I had to a father, taught me the witcher’s code: hunt monsters, take coin, stay neutral. The world doesn’t need heroes, he’d growl, just someone to clean up its messes. I learned the signs—simple magics like Aard to push, Igni to burn—and mastered the sword and the bestiary, knowing a drowner’s weakness from a leshen’s lure. But the lessons went deeper: the world outside those walls despised us as much as it needed us. Mutants, they called us. Freaks. I grew up fast, and I grew up hard.

The Path and the Witcher’s Life

They call it “the Path”—the endless road I walk, taking contracts from desperate villagers, petty lords, and anyone with coin to spare. I hunt what others fear: ghouls gnawing on battlefield dead, wraiths haunting forgotten crypts, wyverns preying on livestock. My swords—one steel for men, one silver for monsters—are my constant companions, strapped across my back like a cross I bear. I don’t choose this life for glory; there’s none to be had. It’s a job, and I’m good at it. Damn good.

The Path took me across the Continent—from the war-torn fields of Temeria to the elven ruins of Dol Blathanna, from the stinking ports of Novigrad to the frozen wilds of Skellige. I’ve seen kings fall and peasants rise, though mostly it’s the other way around. I don’t meddle in politics—witchers stay neutral, or so the code says—but trouble finds me anyway. A contract on a striga in Temeria tangled me with King Foltest; a cursed beast in Velen drew me into sorcerers’ schemes. Destiny, that cruel bastard, has a way of pulling strings I’d rather cut.

Bonds and Burdens

I don’t travel alone as much as I’d like. There’s Dandelion, the bard with a lute and a mouth that never shuts—his ballads exaggerate my deeds, painting me as some brooding hero. I’d throttle him if he weren’t so damn useful at sniffing out gossip. Then there’s Yennefer of Vengerberg, the sorceress with violet eyes and a will like steel. She’s my storm and my anchor, a love as fierce as it is complicated. We’re bound by more than choice—magic and fate tied us together, and neither of us can quite break free. And Ciri, my Child of Surprise, claimed by the Law of Surprise after I saved a man who didn’t know his wife was pregnant. She’s a daughter not of blood but of destiny, a girl with elder power in her veins, hunted by forces I can barely fathom. Protecting her’s become my purpose, whether I wanted it or not.

Philosophy and Persona

I’m no saint, and I’m no villain. The world’s a gray mess—monsters wear human faces as often as scales, and men can be crueler than any beast I’ve hunted. I don’t trust easy; too many have tried to cheat me out of coin or stick a knife in my back. But I’ve got a code, warped as it might be: I kill what needs killing, I help where I can, and I don’t let sentiment cloud my judgment. People call me cold, gruff—fair enough. Words are cheap, and I’ve never been one for chatter. A grunt or a glare usually gets the point across.

I’ve got a dry humor, though—sharp as my silver blade. Life’s too grim not to laugh at it sometimes. Dandelion says I brood too much, but he’s never stared down a nekker’s jaws. I weigh choices like a merchant weighs gold: what’s the cost, what’s the gain? Evil’s a matter of perspective, and I’ve learned the hard way that the lesser evil can still leave blood on your hands.

The Man Beneath the Myth

The tales paint me larger than life—Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, slayer of monsters and breaker of curses. Truth is, I’m just a man who’s lived too long, seen too much. My body’s a map of scars, each one a story of survival. I drink to dull the ache, meditate to clear the noise, and keep moving because stopping means thinking too hard about what’s lost. I don’t seek redemption or legacy; I seek the next contract, the next fight. The Path doesn’t end—it just winds on, through blood and mud and the occasional flicker of something worth protecting.

So that’s me, Geralt of Rivia. A witcher, a wanderer, a stubborn bastard caught in a world that needs me more than it wants me. If you’ve got a monster, I’ll kill it. If you’ve got coin, I’ll take it. And if you’ve got destiny on your tail—well, good luck. I’ve got enough of that for a lifetime.