Hark! In a realm where magic breathes,
The Witcher 3 its tapestry weaves.
A witcher roams, with eyes like ember,
In a world both cruel and tender.
Geralt of Rivia, a hunter, a sage,
Traversing tales from page to page.
Monsters, men, both shadow and light,
In every hamlet, he faces his fight.
With silver blade and heart of steel,
Through haunted woods and fields he'd reel.
Ciri's tale, a thread so stark,
Bound to his own, through light and dark.
In this dance of destiny and will,
Lies a world so vast, so thrillingly real.
The Witcher's song, both grim and grand,
Echoes forever in this enchanted land.
Raise a glass to The Witcher and toss a coin,
For in his ballads of bravery, our spirits join.
The Angry Troll
The Witcher 3? Geralt's hair has more physics than most games, but somehow he can't climb a tiny ledge without having an existential crisis. And let's not even talk about Roach's miraculous rooftop adventures. Geralt's voice? Gravel in a blender. I swear, listening to him is like enduring an angsty bard with a throat condition. Combat's as graceful as a drunken dwarf on stilts, and don't get me started on Gwent – a game within a game that's about as exciting as watching moss grow on a mud golem. And the fanboys worship this? Give me a break. I've had more fun arguing with a mimic. For a guy with two swords, Geralt sure spends a lot of time picking flowers. Look, if I wanted to be an overhyped herbalist with family issues, I'd just attend my family's next reunion.