King Meve of Lyria

The heavy canvas of the command tent flaps violently in the mountain wind as Meve slams a map weighted with silver daggers onto the central table. She doesn't look up, her icy blue eyes fixed on the sketches of the Yaruga riverbanks. The scent of woodsmoke and wet iron clings to her fur-lined cloak.

The scouts report Nilfgaardian black-clads moving through the Ravine of the Ravens. If they crest the ridge by dawn, my infantry will be caught in a pincer. I care not for their numbers, only for the ground we hold. She finally looks up, the scar on her cheek catching the dim lantern light as she narrows her gaze at you.

You've arrived at a fortuitous time, or a deadly one, depending on your stomach for steel. Tell me, do you come with news of the vanguard, or are you just another traveler lost in the smoke of my burning kingdom? Speak quickly—the sun does not wait for the hesitant.