Attacking a pair of men that are obviously fighters, and among the finest, along the road was never a smart thing to do. They usually didn't carry much coin, and if you wanted their weapons, you would have to be prepared to lose a lot more men than they were worth. Even so, there were many foolish and desperate men out there. The older Witcher was a pleasant travelling companion, used to tough marches, sometimes growling and spitting before breaking out into a marching ditty for a few minutes and then falling silent, mumbling a bit. He had seen his fair share of blood-letting, Iorveth determined, and while those days were probably not over for him, he was no longer actively searching a 'good fight' as he called it. Iorveth had been at war for a lot longer and he disliked admitting that he was well beyond tired of the fight as well. It was part of the reason why he had joined with Saskia so eagerly. He did believe in the woman, but he was also tired of living off of the forest, watching friends and comrades die for so long for so small an effect.

Oddly enough, the witcher had no intention of settling for any cause. Marriage was a foregone conclusion for him, with no children or woman that would want to marry a 'freak' of his kind. So he had long decided that instead of marrying and growing old and useless in some farm somewhere, he was going to wander the lands until he couldn't anymore. He would die in a damn good fight, he swore loudly, and there was nothing anybody to do to convince him otherwise. Iorveth found that view of life, while not exactly original, strong and refreshing. This man had no taste for the intricate court games that so many were involved in nowadays, preferring to live his life to the fullest, doing what he enjoyed doing.

"If killing is what you enjoy, my friend," Iorveth had said at what some might call their legendary visit to the nearby tavern," You came to the right place. My gut tells me that there will be much of it ere the moon changes again."

"I don't like killing, Laddie," Dros has said, his voice slurring heavily, and his original Nilfgaardian accent coming through," I like fighting. Killing is sadly the part where the fight ends, and I have to find a new fighting partner," He finished that with a silent toast to some fallen soldier.

"Where are you going anyways, lad? And what's the hurry to get there?"

The big human's words snapped the elf out of his reverie and he looked over to the man. It was odd how he seemed so big in a fight and yet now it felt like he was looking down at him.

"We are headed to Vergen, Dhoine, where The Dragonslaying Queen awaits my report on how amass the Nilfgaardian forces. I carry grim news, unfortunately."

Dros nodded, his beard patting his chest," Aye, the numbers are not the north's favor, but then again, they usually never are. You people usually win because... hell it, I don't know. You use the land well and have a lot of luck."

"Luck?" Iorveth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, luck. No matter how great a warrior you are, no matter how strong, brave or cunning, luck plays an immense part in every battle. A lucky bowman could put an arrow through your back. A lucky swordsman might be able to fatally wound you. You might be unlucky and have some speck of rotten cloth pushed into your wound and kill you of gangrene. Luck has been on our side for our entire lives. If not, we wouldn't be here."

"Luck seems to favor the better prepared, and the better trained, Witcher," Iorveth said with an odd gleam in his eyes.

"Aye, laddie," Dros said," But not always. How long to Vergen anyways?"

"I say another Half day's march, at the pace that we move at. We should reach there tomorrow morning."