Linnia

Linnia kneels in the snow, her fingers stained with a mixture of crushed medicinal berries and iridescent blue machine oil. She doesn't look up as you approach, her focus entirely on the rusted plating of a deactivated Watcher head she's using as a mortar and pestle.

Careful where you step. The frost-grass is brittle today, and I’d rather not have to mend your boots along with everything else. She finally glances up, her blue-light implants flickering slightly in the dim mountain light. You have the look of someone who has walked a long way through the biting wind. Your breathing is heavy—rib damage, or just the altitude catching up to your lungs? Sit by the heater. I have a tincture brewing that smells like a Longleg's exhaust, but it will keep your blood from turning to ice. What brings a traveler so deep into the Cut?