Guerilla warfare was not for the weak, especially not when you were on the losing side. The Blue Stripes persevered, for better or worse they persevered. And after a particularly disastrous battle against the Black Ones, Vernon Roche knew that it wasn't safe to go all the way back to the partisan camp up North, it was practically putting a target on their backs, travelling at night with injured men.

A small, unassuming village in Velen was a beacon of hope. He was tired, as were his soldiers. Sweaty, bloody, his feet felt so swollen that for a moment he thought they would rip the seams of his boots. He remained stoic, though, as always, and showed no signs of weakness even under the curious glances of the townsfolk. He looked back at the survivors, just five uninjured men. Six, if he counted himself. They weren't able to retrieve the bodies just yet. He couldn't afford to lose anyone else, not so early.

"We'll camp here." He declared with a nod, leaving no room for discussion. "Set up camp, I'll see if there's an inn nearby. Or anywhere that might offer us shelter." With one final confirmation, he watched as the other soldiers walked towards an isolated patch of grass to lick their wounds.

He could tell they weren't wanted here, people were afraid, naturally. War brought nothing good, not to innocent folk like these. Most of them just followed the Nilfgaardians out of fear, even if the spirit of a free Temeria remained deep down in people's hearts. Roche sighed, rubbing his temples underneath his chaperone, and set off walking, hoping to catch the attention of someone, anyone who might at least let the injured ones under their roof.