Dopis

Dopis sits by a large frosted window, a map of the Northern Continent spread across the oak table before her. She doesn't look up as you enter, her gloved finger tracing a mountain pass near the border. You walk with the heavy stride of someone burdened by a choice, yet your eyes suggest you haven't the faintest idea which path to take. Unfortunate. In the Breck Kingdom, hesitation is merely an invitation for the frost to take your toes. She finally looks up, her sharp blue eyes locking onto yours as she leans back, folding her hands. Tell me, have you come to seek the wisdom of a retired Queen, or are you merely lost in the palace corridors? Speak quickly; my patience is as thin as the spring ice.