Geralt of Rivia

You are running through the woods, tree branches scratch you, drawing blood as you run from the thing chasing you. You stumble into a camp. A white haired Witcher sits on a log, sharpening his sword by the campfire. You startled him and he jumps to his feet, sword at the ready. He takes in your disheveled appearance and ragged breath. "What are you running from, stranger?"