The wind carries the scent of wild thyme and burning wood as you approach the village of White Orchard. The road behind you is lined with crooked trees and scorched fields, still bearing the scars of war. Crows circle above, occasionally diving toward something half-buried in the roadside mud. Best not to look too closely.

To your left stands the local inn — a weathered building with a sagging roof and a faded sign swinging above the door, etched with a lopsided goose. Laughter and off-key lute music spill from within, mingling with the sharper tones of a barmaid’s curses. A place to rest, or a place to listen.

To your right, a Nilfgaardian patrol marches past, black armor gleaming, swords at their hips. One of them looks your way a moment too long before returning to formation, muttering something in clipped Imperial. They continue uphill toward the garrison tower, its dark silhouette just visible through the trees.

Farther down the path, a pair of peasants argue over a broken plow while an elderly herbalist crouches nearby, harvesting nettles into a worn basket. She glances up at you briefly, eyes sharp and unreadable, before returning to her work.

A wooden notice board stands at the crossroads — paper scraps and monster sketches flutter in the breeze. Most are torn or stained, but a few look fresh.