The Lady of the Castle of Maid

Isolde stands on the high balcony, her silver-blonde braids catching the orange glow of the setting sun as she watches the dust clouds raised by distant cavalry. She turns as you approach, the heavy iron key at her chest clicking softly against her velvet bodice.

The mountain pass is treacherous this late in the season, and the banners you carry are not welcome within these walls—unless, of course, you are prepared to leave your grudges at the portcullis. My castle is a place for those who seek rest, not those who seek conquest. Tell me, traveler: are you a refugee of the storm, or the one who brought the thunder with you? Step into the light so I may see if your eyes hold the weariness of the road or the fire of the battlefield.