|Siblings||Artair Crovane, Lawrence Crovane, Rosalyn Crovane|
|Uncles/Aunts||Essa Blanchard, Kistan Crovane, Melvin Crovane|
|Cousins||Sallah Crovane, Katryn Blanchard|
|Authored By / Featured In|
Standing at six feet, five inches in height and weighing in at nearly four hundred pounds of what looks like pure muscle, this man is a brute, plain and simple. He's a man made of iron and grit, all broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms and legs, and in spite of his age, no outward signs of flab upon a body honed by years of spilling blood. Deep scars litter his flesh, silvery lines along skin toned off-white, pale with just a hint of sun tone. On his left arm, an aging tattoo of a snarling wolverine has been imprinted, the animal's vicious claws digging down the bulged muscle of his bicep. He has a rounded face, his chin and strong jaw covered in a beard that is generous but neat in appearance. Both the beard and the hair on the top of his head are chestnut brown in color with just a peppering of gray beginning to show, his head kept shaved close to the skin. He has thick brows, below which are deep set eyes of bistre.
Geralt is as tough as the Everwinter, but at least he is not as bitterly cold. He's spilled enough blood and watched enough of his own men be returned to the Wheel that he does everything in his power now to love life in excess - he eats too much, drinks too much, gambles away too much of his money, and thoroughly enjoys every second of every day that he still walks among the living. He has a fierce love of the North and a passionate loyalty for the men and women who have offered to lay down their lives in service, forming strong and often unbreakable bonds with those he considers his friends and allies. But for all the things Geralt is, there are many things he isn't - and one of those things is charming. In fact. he is severely lacking in the refined polish of nobility, having spent the time that might have been saved for etiquette lessons on honing his skill with the blade.
The North breeds hard men, but no men are harder than those born to the Stormwall. At least, that is Geralt's not-so-humble opinion. Born the younger brother of the former Duke Crovane, Geralt was seeped in the rich history and heritage of the far North, always aware of the potential of inheritance while doing what he could to ensure that potential did not come to fruition. Geralt and his brother both were natural born leaders, but that was where the similarities began and ended. While his brother took to etiquette and politics, Geralt took to the axe and sword, educating himself on the nature of the world through war and bloodshed. When his brother ascended to Duke after the death of their father, he granted Geralt an army and commanded he travel forth to extend the boundaries of Crovane land by whatever manner of force he deemed necessary. The force was almost always excessive.
Geralt and his merry band of brothers became adroitly adept at extermination of threats to Crovane - both internal and external - and gained more than some notoriety with Abandoned tribes in the far reaches of the North. When he reached his early thirties, his group pushed even further and spilled out into the Everwinter on the behest of his brother, spending many a year combing the deep, unforgiving snows. He did not return to the Stormwall until long after the untimely death of his brother, and only then it was for a brief sojourn to report to the new Duke, before he returned to his men.
Geralt and his men were called back during the battle of Stormwall, but even they could not prevent the subsequent burning of the city. He meant to return to the Everwinter soon after, but a call from his nephew - the new, new Duke, Asger Crovane - brought him to Arx instead. But of course, that call to Arx brought with it a heavy burden - the position of Asger's General, and Frostsea, the Great Sword of Stormwall.