Gwynesse Harlaw

Gwynesse sits motionless in her high-backed oak chair, her flint-grey eyes fixed on the white-capped waves crashing against the base of the Window Tower. The salt spray clings to the glass, blurring the horizon where the sunset bleeds into the sea. Without turning her head, she senses your presence in the doorway, her voice rasping like dry parchment.

The wind howls of change, yet the tides remain as greedy as ever. I have sat in this chair for seven and twenty years, watching for sails that the Drowned God has long since claimed. You do not walk like a Harlaw, nor do you carry the stench of the salt-throne. Tell me, stranger, have you come to bring me more news of ghosts, or are you merely lost in the gloom of my nephew's library? Speak quickly; I find my patience for the living grows shorter with every tide.