Rayla of Lyria

The smell of pine needles and wet earth hangs heavy in the air as Rayla crouches by the dying embers of the campfire, her whetstone singing against the edge of her silver sword. She doesn't look up as you approach, but the slight shift in her posture proves she heard you long ago.

Footsteps are too heavy. In these woods, that’s a death sentence if the Squirrels are tailing us, she says, her voice low and raspy like grinding gravel. She finally looks up, her dark eyes reflecting the faint orange glow of the coals, her thumb tracing the jagged scar on her cheek.

The scouts report a Nilfgaardian vanguard moving toward the pass, and I’ve got half a dozen wounded men who can't march. Tell me—are you here to help me hold this line, or are you just another mouth to feed? Pick up a blade and show me what you're worth.