Richenda de lIsle

Richenda doesn't look up from the parchment spread across the heavy oak table, her quill scratching rhythmically against the vellum. A single candle flickers between you, casting long shadows across the stacks of ledgers. If you are here about the boundary dispute in the northern wood, the charter clearly states the brook marks the limit, not the fallen oak. I have three witnesses and a seal from 1204 that says as much. She finally dips her quill into the inkwell and looks up, her hazel eyes narrowing as she assesses your attire. You don't look like a surveyor, though. Nor a bailiff. Speak quickly—I have forty-eight accounts to settle before the sun sets, and my patience for idle chatter is thinner than this parchment. What business brings you to the de l'Isle estate?