1 week earlier

The smell of mildew and mold hung in the air as a pair of armored guards dragged a filthy man down a dimly lit hallway at a brisk pace. The man was dressed only in a roughspun tunic and pants without so much as a thread to cover his feet as they slapped against the cold stone. A coarse beard, almost a full hand in length, and black as coal dominated the lower half of his face while the top is streaked with dirt, much like the rest of him, with the smell to match. His eyes, wide with fear, darted around without pause as his captors dragged him by a chain connected to the manacles binding his wrists together. Eventually, the trio arrived at a solid oaken door flanked by lit torches on either side. One of the guards stepped forward to unlock the door with a heavy iron key and pushes both open with a creak that echoes off the stoney walls. The bearded man was yanked forward into a small room surprisingly well lit by torchlight and dominated by a large wooden table in its center complete with two chairs. Splatters of a dark, reddish stain encircle a set of manacles fixed into the table, and caused the bearded man to recoil. He pulled on his restraints with surprising strength and he received a fist in the gut for his insolence that had him bent almost in half.
“Enough of that! You don’t have a choice in the matter. Either sit down on your own or we’ll prop you up with a spear, understand?”
The man nodded once and straightened up with some difficulty as he made his way to the chair. The guards fastened him to the table none too gently and took up positions by the open door they arrived in, weapons in hand as they wait for someone to arrive. Their captive sat quietly, hoping that whatever was going on could be resolved quickly. He [i]hated[/i] being there. Everything smelled wrong and he hated the way sound bounced off the walls again and again. Maybe they’d let him go if he just kept quiet. 

Footsteps filled the air of the halls, and suddenly a jester danced out from within the castle sanctum. Behind him, an aging but lovely woman in what could only be described as an elaborate headdress sauntered in, her eyes like daggers and her lips taut. She seemed to survey the room as if she would command all if she could, but it was clear she did not, for with her was the King. 

Even if Renar had never seen the King before, there was no mistaking it. Foltest had a look that overpowered even the woman, and he wore the crown atop his head as if born to it. Though he could have been considered to have a soldierly look were it not for the eyes and his kingly nose. His body, at least what was not covered in royal regalia and cloth, was sturdy and honed to that of a footsoldier. 

“Ah, so this is the one. Renar, is it?” Foltest asked, his voice posh but rough. He waved for the guards to give the scout some room. Once they backed away warily, Foltest approached. He moved with confidence, sizing Renar up. “You’re difficult enough to track and capture. I was hoping you would not disappoint.”

Quiet prevailed as the wild man remained utterly silent and still, his eyes cast down on the table and avoiding the King's gaze entirely. He had the look of a frightened rabbit in the middle of an open field, hoping to avoid detection despite having nothing to hide in. 

Foltest stared him down, looking past his hawkish nose. “I see you’re a man of few words. Well it is lucky for you, as I am not in need of your wit or manner.” He said, stepping forward dangerously close. He seemed to have an iron will about him, and he stood not a meter away from the prisoner. “You’ve traveled south, into Nilfgaard territory have you not?”

Renar shifted uncomfortably in his seat, edging away from Foltest as though he feared the King's touch would burn him. He paused, wringing his hands worriedly as he nodded, still refusing to look the king in the eye.
"Many winters ago."
Yes, he’d been to Nilfgaard before. Not in several years, but what did that have to do with anything? He didn’t understand what was happening.

“Then you’re hired.” Foltest said, and to everyone’s astonishment, he smiled. It was cold but somehow full of bravado. “You and others will go to Nilfgaard and prepare the way for my army. You will scout and hold a strongpoint for the winter. Do so and you’ll receive four years pay as a soldier, along with added loot once you complete the mission.”

Renar was immediately floored. The money was nice but he was over the moon about what sounded like his imminent release, but still he struggled to process the sudden shift in tone. Eventually he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and simply nodded.
"I can leave after?" 

Foltest raised an eyebrow, and after a moment a grin appeared over his face. He had not been so amused in quite awhile. 

“If you so desire, yes. You will be a free man.” he declared. He waved his hands in the air for a moment in exasperation. “You were technically free before, but as you know our plan, even if you said no we would need to hold you here until it was done. Better to be paid and ply your wares than be stuck as a guest in my keep, isn’t it?”

Renar looked down at his restraints with visible confusion. The guards had made it very clear from the start that he was a prisoner. His knowledge of civilized society was limited at best, yet even he knew that chaining someone up was generally not something one did to guests. 
"I like being a free man better."


[center]==========[/center]


The party could see a hooded man riding a horse without a saddle or bridle in the general direction of their camp from a ways off, but they could be forgiven for thinking he was a lone traveler separate from themselves. Renar didn't spare a single glance toward them until he directed his horse right up to the group by gently pulling on a rope hanging loosely around its neck. Anyone paying attention would spot a young hawk perched on his shoulder as he drew closer. The horse stopped with a gentle pat on the shoulder and a whispered command from Renar who dismounted with one fluid motion, stirring the hawk in a flutter of wings as it rebalanced itself. He pulled half a carrot from a pocket inside his cloak and offered it to the horse he gobbled it up without hesitation. Renar stroked the horse's neck without hurry as it ate, waiting for it to finish before telling it to,
"Stay."
And stay it did without needing to be tied down.

Renar pulled back his hood and revealed a head of black hair untouched by any grooming instrument save a knife as he scanned the faces of the crowd. The King had assembled an interesting group to be sure.

He recognized the Nazairi right away. His travels had taken him along the edge of her people's lands. Visiting was nice, but he much preferred the greenery of the forest to the oceans of sand that made up her birthplace. He took note of her muscle mass, her facial scars, and non-standard equipment. Clearly she was not some run of the mill conscript. One of the men who returned his equipment to him upon his release from the dungeon had mentioned rumors of witchers amongst the party. She was clearly no witcher. Her eyes belonged to a human and her equipment was for hunting men, not monsters. A mercenary then. He knew her sort were not known for loyalty to anything but coin and as he was not the one paying her, he'd be sure to keep that in mind.

The men with eyes like wildcats, on the other hand, were definitely witchers. The paired swords on their backs gave them away before he even saw their eyes. Their armor sets, while different, were very clearly meant to prioritize function over form. They were men who knew their craft well. Were they comrades? No, their pendants differed. He'd heard tell of witcher schools where they made children into weapons to fight monsters. Perhaps they were from rival schools which made it even more odd that two witchers were assigned to the same task. They might be up to something, best to keep an eye on them.

The one with the mismatched eyes was a sorceress without a shadow of a doubt. He'd seen her step out of thin air and onto the road ahead of him and couldn't help but wonder why magic users didn't band together long ago and set about ruling the world with an iron fist. Their lack of cooperation puzzled him, but he was no less thankful for it. She was breathtakingly beautiful, to put it mildly, but this only made the wild man wary of her. He'd seen the way especially beautiful women in cities would leverage their gifted appearance to take what they wanted. He would have to be extra vigilant around her.

The elf gave him pause. It was not often Renar saw one of his kind. He looked over his armor and noted it's luxury. He looked at his hands and saw them to be rough and heavily calloused. That, along with his unusually muscular build led Renar to believe him to be some sort of craftsman. A smith, perhaps? It would explain the armor and how it was obviously custom made in order to accommodated such a large wearer. Him being a smith would also explain his lack of any sort of visible weapon. Pehaps he could be convinced to make tools for coin.

The girl with the mule was not a fighter. The way she carried herself, her lithe frame, her aesthetic but non-functional clothes, and lack of weapons all pointed to her being either a member of the court or some sort of scholar. He wasn't sure yet. Renar made a mental note to observe her more later.

Finally his gaze setttled on Balidvar but he made no move to approach, apparently comfortable being where he was. He saw the look in his eyes and the stewing, unresolved anger they held and it made him uneasy. The hawk did not seem to share his concerns as it cocked its head at the man to get a better look.
"My name is Renar and I am your forward scout. I'm sorry I'm late. I was busy being arrested by your father."
There was no malice behind the statement but no joke either. It was merely a statement of fact to him.