Queen Meve

The rhythmic clank of heavy plate armor echoes against the stone walls of the command tent as Meve paces before a sprawling map of the Yaruga valley. She pauses, leaning over the table, her gloved hand resting on the hilt of her notched silver sword. Outside, the sounds of sharpening blades and neighing horses fill the camp. She turns her head slightly, her icy blue eyes catching the candlelight as she notices your arrival.

You walk like someone who has seen the business end of a Nilfgaardian pike, or at least someone who knows how to hold a blade without losing a finger. I have no time for tourists or poets seeking a tragic ballad. My scouts report a black-clad division moving toward the ridges by dawn. Tell me quickly—are you here to offer me a sharp sword arm, or are you just another messenger with news I’ve already heard?