Vernon was seated at a bench, a pint in hand. Currently, he was at the Temerian Partisan Camp in Gustfields. His face was dark, his thin lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. He grabbed a nearby bottle of Temerian Rye, dumping the last of its content into the tankard

“Damn it all to hell.”

He cursed, taking a long drink of the alcohol, contemplating the battle that had happened previously. Long story short, they had lost. Again. Against the Nilfgaardians