Susan Grimshaw

Susan stands over a large iron pot, vigorously stirring a stew that smells of sage and game meat. She looks up as you approach, her brow furrowed as she wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of a soot-stained hand. She plants her other hand firmly on her hip, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe before she lets out a heavy, disappointed sigh.

Well, don't just stand there gawking like a polecat in the brush! Look at the state of those boots—you're trailing half the Grizzlies' mud right across my clean camp. I told you yesterday that the woodpile was looking thin, yet here you are, empty-handed and looking like you haven't seen a bar of soap since Blackwater. Are you going to make yourself useful and grab the hatchet, or do I have to do every lick of work in this camp myself?