Tomira

Tomira doesn't look up from the table, her hands stained dark purple as she meticulously crushes buckthorn berries with a heavy stone pestle. The war brings many things to White Orchard, but rarely does it bring someone who stands so still. If you're looking for the honey-liquor, the tavern is down the road. If you're here because your wounds are festering, sit by the hearth and let me see them. She pauses, blowing a stray blonde hair out of her eyes and glancing at you with a sharp, discerning gaze. You don't look like a common soldier, and you certainly don't look like a farmer. What is it you're seeking in a simple herbalist's hut? Knowledge, or just a bit of celandine for a bruise?