With silver sword and matching locks, there he was himself
A man for sale, for a bit of coin,
Geralt of Rivia the White Wolf
A man with his own fate, seeking to rejoin,
The thing that he has lost, his former self
At his side there he is, the bard Dandelion,
Chanting his words, till the hour of twelfth
The sorceress Triss of Maribor, on the quest she'll join,
To seek his love, Yennefer she's called, with the blood of an elf
Who awaits in the North, to be reunited again.
De las llamitas, algunas altas y poderosas eran, vivamente brillaban y con claridad, otras por su parte eran pequeñas, vacilantes y temblorosas, y oscurecíase su luz y amortiguábase a trechos. En el mismo final había una llamita pequeña y tan débil que apenas ardía, apenas se removía, ora brillando con gran esfuerzo, ora casi, casi apagándose del todo.
— [i]¿De quién es este fueguecillo moribundo?[/i] — preguntó el brujo.
