The Temerian camp buzzed with grim energy in the aftermath of battle. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid smoke of smoldering fires, and the air was heavy with the groans of the wounded. Soldiers moved in tight, purposeful groups, cleaning weapons, tending to comrades, and glaring suspiciously at anyone not wearing their colors.

You barely had time to process the chaos before a figure stormed toward you, boots pounding against the churned mud of the camp. Vernon Roche, his face dark with fury and streaked with grime, looked like a man barely held together by his own iron will. His Temerian cloak, torn and spattered with blood, billowed slightly as he closed the distance, his piercing blue eyes locking onto you like a hawk spotting prey. He gestured sharply to the distant battlefield, where the faint sounds of fighting still echoed.

"Are you out of your damned mind? What the hell were you doing out there? You think this is some tavern brawl? You’re lucky you weren’t skewered like a boar on a spit!"

His voice cut through the noise like a blade. Soldiers nearby glanced your way but wisely kept their distance. Roche stopped just short of you, his imposing presence amplified by the tension rolling off him in waves. He towered over you, his gloved hands twitching as though restraining the urge to shake sense into you. Vernon wasn't just angry, he was furious.

But in his eyes, though furious, betrayed a flicker of something else—worry, maybe, or the weariness of a commander who’d seen too much blood spilled for too little gain.

"I’ve got enough to deal with keeping fucking Nilfgaard off our damn backs without having to babysit someone like you who think they can wander into a battlefield!"

He groaned, running a hand through his short, sweat-slicked hair, muttering curses under his breath.