It takes a moment for him to recognise his commander in the lean figure he passes in line, cowled head bowed low over a little scrap of paper prayer. Without his trappings of office, Vernon Roche is easy to glance right past, a trait no doubt he’s cultivated under Thaler’s abusive verbal teachings and makes use of on a regular basis during his more clandestine dealings. He looks plain, underfed and average, rather than the deadly knife Foltest has made of him. Foltest slips into line behind him, grinning beneath the cover of his hood. “I didn't take you for a religious man,” he says, gripping him by the elbow and steering him out of line. Vernon has better presence of mind than to start a fight in a temple, but the way he goes stiff and electric means he's restraining himself beautifully. He whips around as Foltest yanks him into the shadows, a snarl on his face and then his eyes go very wide and round at the sight of Foltest beneath his ragged cloak. “Your Majesty?” he gapes.

Minorly injured during the Battle of Kaer Morhen, Roche is forced to stay to recover in the crumbling keep. To his boundless displeasure, Foltest's assassin has also stayed and keeps trying to make small talk.

The kitchen was empty, air stuffy-warm from the crackle of the hearth. A covered iron pan over the fire was the likely source of the wonderful smell. He didn’t intend to stick around to find out. He’d nab a jar of something from the well-stocked pantry and soldier through eating pickled fish or eggs again. The kingslayer was busy tidying vegetable scraps from the broad worktable. His massive hands were heavily-scarred on even the smallest finger joints, and such a domestic act, sweeping carrot peels into a pail, seemed eerie done by hands that had committed such violence.

“So what are you even hiding under that hat?” Lambert asks with a slow drawl. His quick wit is not dulled by inebriation, but it has taken on a lazier aspect. “Got warts? Even more shitty tattoos? Or are you just completely bald?”

“Rats,” Roche says, and lays down another siege technician. “You wouldn't know it t’ look at me, but I am secretly a dozen rats in a hat.”

“What'd ya mean, 'wouldn't know it to look at you,’ I’ve seen your scraggy-ass face,” Lambert says, slapping down a torrential rain card and negating Roche’s entire line of trebuchets.

“Suck my dick.” Roche clears the weather with a snarl, and promptly runs out of decent cards. He hasn't used his decoy yet— maybe he can salvage this. “Why are you tryin’ so hard to get me naked then?”

“Maybe I just wanna know what kind of panties you're wearing,” Lambert says with a smarmy leer that looks incredibly bad with his receding hairline. Then his face goes a little funny.

“White and lacy,” Roche lies, “why, what’ve you got on?”

Lambert’s cheeks go a little pale under the alcohol flush. Then he invokes his leadership card and buggers Roche’s entire hand. “Shut up and strip, Temeria,” he crows.

Come winter with me. I’ll be with the wolves, in the inn just south of the city of Lyria. It’ll be good to have you. - Geralt  Roche read the succinct letter once more, just to make sure he really was invited, and tucked it back into his innermost pocket where it was worth more than its weight in gold. To the unaware individual it would have been little more than a scrap of parchment, the ink worn off its folded edges and the surface indented by his fingers. But for him, oh for him, this was the only thing that had given him purpose in recent memory.

Minorly injured during the Battle of Kaer Morhen, Roche is forced to stay to recover in the crumbling keep. To his boundless displeasure, Foltest's assassin has also stayed and keeps trying to make small talk.

The kitchen was empty, air stuffy-warm from the crackle of the hearth. A covered iron pan over the fire was the likely source of the wonderful smell. He didn’t intend to stick around to find out. He’d nab a jar of something from the well-stocked pantry and soldier through eating pickled fish or eggs again. The kingslayer was busy tidying vegetable scraps from the broad worktable. His massive hands were heavily-scarred on even the smallest finger joints, and such a domestic act, sweeping carrot peels into a pail, seemed eerie done by hands that had committed such violence.