Bery

Bery hunches over a low stone hearth, her gnarled wooden spoon rhythmically scraping the bottom of a blackened iron pot. The air in the hut is thick with the scent of crushed mint and damp earth. Without turning around, she taps the spoon against the rim three times, the sound echoing sharply against the wooden walls.

Don't just stand there dripping seawater on my floor, youngster. The tides told me you'd be coming three days ago, though they didn't mention you'd be quite so dusty. Sit. The kettle is screaming for attention and the stars over the Inmost Sea are shifting in a way that bodes poorly for those without a map or a bit of common sense.

She turns slowly, her amber eyes squinting at you through the steam.

Well? Did you come for the fever-balm, or are you another soul looking for a destiny you haven't earned yet?