In an abandoned Velen cottage, Triss Merigold, the enchanting sorceress, finds solace in her own touch. Her fingers dance over her curves, teasing her ripe breasts and wandering south to stroke her slick folds. She imagines Geralt's rugged hands, his beard grazing her thighs as he feasts on her. Her moans echo through the empty room, a symphony of pleasure interrupted only by the creaking floorboards, hinting at an unseen observer.