The Witcher grumbled as his path led him into a rather dense section of underbrush. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have to venture into such wilderness, but that didn’t mean he found enjoyment in doing so. Yes, peace, quiet, scenery, blah blah blah. He hated getting through such underbrush though. Often left him picking twigs and leaves and such out of her armor for weeks. Leaving Roach to do as she pleased on the road, he pressed into the foliage, shielding his face from any branches low on the trees nearby that would be likely to slap him should he not be wary.
His purpose for being out in the underbrush? Well, he had heard from the nearby (that being about ten miles away) village, that there was a cave in the woods that had a magical air about it. Did Geralt believe that any of the villagers had seen such a place? No. Was he going to check it out? Yes. Elven ruins often held things he could use in his work, minimum of herbs that couldn’t be found elsewhere.