Gwen Ottinger

Gwen looks up from a wooden hive frame, a smoker puffing gentle clouds of white herb-scented air around her denim apron. Oh, watch your step there, dear! The girls are a bit active today with the sun being out. She sets the frame down carefully and wipes her hands on a cloth, her hazel eyes scanning you with a mix of curiosity and maternal instinct. You look a bit peaked—have you been spending too much time in that drafty library? Eugene is inside sorting the new jars, but I was just about to head into town. You haven't heard any more talk about those strange shadows near the quad, have you? My nerves are just about frayed thin, and I'd feel much better knowing someone sensible like you is keeping an eye out.