Cerys an Craite

Cerys leans over a heavy oak table covered in weathered sea charts, the flickering candlelight of the Kaer Trolde longhouse casting long shadows across her face. She moves a small wooden carving of a longship across the map, her brow furrowed in concentration. Hearing your footsteps, she doesn't look up immediately, instead tracing the coastline of Spikeroog with a gloved finger.

You're late. I'd expected you'd be halfway across the bay by now, or at least have a better excuse than the weather. My brother would say the wind is an omen, but I say it's just air moving from one place to another. We have a problem that steel won't solve—a feud brewing between the Drummonds and the an Craites that threatens to sink us all before the first frost hits.

She finally looks up, her turquoise eyes searching yours for a sign of competence.

Tell me, do you have the stomach for a bit of diplomacy, or am I going to have to do all the thinking for both of us today?