Velen lay west of Vizima and had been the poorest province of the former Kingdom of Temeria. Even in peacetime, without bandits and deserters roaming about, it had been a desolate agricultural region.
Uninhabited swamps, impoverished villages, and ill-mannered country bumpkins were more or less the only things people associated with the place.
Now, ravaged by war, Velen had become not only a paradise for bandits and deserters, but also a promised land for ghouls and other scavengers, a wonderful place where food never stopped arriving.
That evening, deep in the heart of Velen, before the notice board outside the Inn at the Crossroads...
...
Help Us Send Him Off
"To Whomever Has Eyes to Read,
T'otherday our Falibor died. We've no means to bury him properly, not a white shirt in the house, nor cloth for a shroud, nor planks for a coffin.
If there's ought you can spare, help, please. If we don't send him off to the next world proper-like, he'll haunt us all in revenge."
Nassy
...
Guide Wanted
"I've need of a man to guide me and me family cross the Pontar. Five of us in all, me, me wife, three young'uns, but they's calm, not the crying or yelling sort, won't give us away to the soldiers.
I'm not rich, but whatever I've got I'll give, in fact I'll take on debt and go in someone's service, anything, long as it gets me out of Velen. Please, someone, hear my plea."
Radost
...
After staring white-eyed at the notice board until she finished reading, Angoulême turned toward Victor.
"Things look even worse than we expected. It's all those damn Black Ones' fault!"
Victor, her witcher mentor, rubbed beneath his nose at the girl's overly simplistic conclusion.
"That's not entirely correct. You can't blame everything on Nilfgaard. They lit the fuse, but they're far from being the whole problem.
"Look beyond the surface and find the real cause. The ones squeezing the locals hardest are actually Temerians themselves, those patriotic heroes hiding in the forests and fighting a guerrilla war. And those fellows certainly aren't wilderness survival experts!"
Angoulême silently reflected on his words while Victor shook his head and sighed.
Judging by how well maintained the exterior walls were, the Inn at the Crossroads had clearly enjoyed prosperous days in the past. That made sense, considering it had once stood at a major junction for merchants and travelers.
But those good days were over.
The Northern War had destroyed normal food production, leaving the shadow of hunger hanging over the land and driving prices throughout Velen through the roof.
Radost's and Nassy's notices were merely tiny glimpses of a miserable world.
For example, in a house not far away, a heartbreaking separation was taking place at that very moment.
"You idiot, what are you doing? It's too late to hide her now!"
That was the shrill accusation of a middle-aged woman.
Then came the angry cursing of a rough-voiced man.
"I'd rather lose my own life than lose her!"
"If they hear her screaming, they'll kill us anyway and take her!"
"Then I'll kill her myself first and hide the body beneath the floorboards. Those bastards aren't getting her!"
"Fine. Let's hurry, then cover the blood with sand."
Listening to the pig squealing desperately for help inside the house, the two keen-eared witchers had no choice but to stand by and "let it die."
"The Black Ones are concentrating their strength on the battlefronts and the cities. They have no real control over Velen right now."
Continuing their earlier conversation, Victor pushed open the tavern's wooden door and lowered his voice.
"That's why warlords like the Bloody Baron have room to carve out their own little domains."
...
The Bloody Baron, whose real name was Phillip Strenger, was the current, temporary ruler of Nilfgaard's Velen province.
After Velen's previous lord, Baron Vserad, master of Crow's Perch, fled his lands during the war and escaped to Fyke Isle, this low-ranking Temerian officer occupied Crow's Perch and proclaimed himself baron.
Through negotiations with the Black Ones, he subsequently obtained temporary authority to administer the region.
According to de Rideaux, the current chaos was merely temporary. Once the empire achieved total victory and had resources to spare, it would naturally dispatch a wise governor to take over.
Though no one knew how long that would take.
...
The Phantom Troupe entered the Inn at the Crossroads.
Evening should have been its busiest time, yet there were barely any customers inside. Only a handful of disheveled villagers sat drinking away their misery.
When they saw the two unusually conspicuous witchers enter, the villagers began sneaking fearful glances at them while whispering disgusted curses under their breath.
They believed they were speaking quietly and staring discreetly.
Before superhuman senses, however, nothing escaped notice.
Victor had long since grown accustomed to such grand hospitality, and he had already prepared himself for Velen, an impoverished backwater filled with hostile locals.
Angoulême, on the other hand, immediately narrowed her white eyes and darkened her expression.
After all, she had undergone her first mutations in Toussaint and had never personally experienced this kind of open hostility.
Back in the homeland of fine wine, no one would have dared stare at the eldest daughter of Corion Manor like some freak, much less insult her.
More importantly, she was the younger sister of Victor, the famed vampire hunter of the dawn. People there couldn't show her enough respect.
Noticing his companion's displeasure, Victor reached out and reassuringly patted her arm, which finally improved her mood.
This kind of timely emotional support was exactly why Vesemir insisted that every newly made witcher of the School of the Wolf travel and train alongside a mentor.
To suddenly acquire tremendous power, then immediately confront a world filled with hostility while working in a profession where death could arrive at any moment placed enormous pressure on a person's mind.
Without proper guidance, it was easy for someone to become bitter, violent, or even criminal.
Take the current situation.
Someone vindictive could simply wait until these villagers lowered their guard, use Axii on them, and easily manipulate them into doing any number of cruel things.
Even mentally mature witchers needed ways to relieve accumulated stress from time to time.
Which was why, as everyone knew, many of them were loyal patrons of brothels.
...
Suppressing the anger in her chest, Angoulême followed Victor to the bar and sat down.
Fortunately, the innkeeper had clearly seen his share of unusual travelers. His attitude was not particularly hostile, merely businesslike.
His beard looked as though it had not seen a razor in at least half a month.
"Don't care who you are. If you want a drink, you'll pay in Novigrad crowns.
"We take no other coin, and we don't do tabs. We don't exchange money either, only food and drink. Don't like it? Go rut for acorns!"
"I doubt you've got any wine worth naming, so asking for a list would be pointless. Give us two cups of whatever's strongest! And if you've got fresh pork, bring us a whole platter! I'm sure you can find a way."
Victor ordered with a cheerful smile.
The innkeeper's previously rigid attitude abruptly transformed after Angoulême tossed him a small pouch of coins.
He opened it, discovered that it contained nothing but crowns, and instantly decided that her white eyes were breathtakingly beautiful.
Whether dealing with ordinary folk or mutants, the magic of gold transcended all racial boundaries.
Radovid's face made for the finest introduction imaginable.
The innkeeper hurriedly summoned a woman who was presumably his wife and gave her several instructions. Then he enthusiastically filled two cups with something that smelled like ale.
With a honey-sweet smile, he pushed them toward the Phantom Troupe.
"Now this is a fine day! Heard a magpie singing first thing this morning, and sure enough, by evening I've got two distinguished guests at my door. Anything I can do for you?"
Victor picked up his cup and drained it in one gulp, then smacked his lips.
"I'm looking for someone, Hendrik. Think that's the name. He definitely lives somewhere nearby.
"Money isn't an issue. I want to know everything there is to know about him."
At the witcher's question, the innkeeper's smile suddenly became somewhat stiff.
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