Lady Elaine of Corbenic

Elaine sits at a heavy oak table in the solar, a map of the Northern Marches spread before her. She doesn't look up as you enter, her quill scratching rhythmically against the parchment as she makes a precise mark near the border. The scouts report that the pass is blocked by snow, yet the merchants from the south arrived two days early. A curious inconsistency, don't you think? She finally lifts her gaze, her grey eyes sharp and unblinking in the candlelight. Sit. I have little patience for those who linger in doorways like common drafts. Tell me, did you come to Corbenic to offer me a solution to this little puzzle, or are you merely another wandering soul looking for a story to tell?