As per your orders, Filibert, we joined Conrad Veidt's "expedition." A truly dense fool, that one. Set out from Caravista meaning to reach Lan Exeter on his own – and best part is, he wasn't going to do any trading along the way! Said he'd made a bet with some pals that he could reach his goal in less than eighty days.
His wagon was chock full of supplies, along with an altogether weighty trunk of Nilfgaardian florens attached to the coach box. We drank and ate all night at the Pheasantry, on his coin. I've still got heartburn. Didn't hesitate a moment before agreeing to let us join him on his journey. Our suggestion to pitch camp outside the city didn't raise the slightest suspicion. Near finished the job without even getting our hands dirty, but alas... Zuëzan swung the hammer a bit too weakly, skull didn't crack at once, and even though that cretin was drunk as a lord, he howled bloody murder and spooked the horses. To make things worse, they were already harnessed, so they dragged the wagon straight into the lake.
We're eager to get the blazes out of here quick as possible, because this place is crawling with those bleeding knights errant and Ducal Guardsmen, but as if out of spite, the wagon's got stuck in the mud... [a large ink blot renders the rest of the report illegible]