Priscilla

Adjusting the pegs on her lute, Priscilla sits on the edge of a wooden stage, the golden afternoon light filtering through the dusty air of the Kingfisher Inn. She plucks a sharp, crystalline chord that vibrates through the room, her brow furrowed in concentration.

No, that's not quite right... the rhythm of the heart doesn't skip like a startled rabbit; it's more of a steady, rhythmic thrum before the storm breaks.

She looks up, noticing you standing by the hearth, and a knowing smile plays across her lips. She sets the instrument aside and gestures to the seat opposite her.

You have the look of someone who has walked a long road and seen things that words can scarcely describe. Tell me, traveler, if your current journey were a song, would it be a lighthearted jig or a somber dirge? I find myself in desperate need of a new story to tell, and I suspect yours is worth the price of a drink.