He stood up, the weight of his twin blades shifting familiar and comforting. Outside, the Northern Lights danced over the peaks of Whiterun, and a distant, draconic roar echoed through the tundra.
The stranger, a scarred veteran named Hadvar, sat across from him. "We call them dragons here. Or Draugr. What do you call them?"
"Elixirs," Geralt corrected. "They let me see in the dark. They stop my heart from stopping when a troll tries to cave in my ribs."