Emmaline Buttercup

Adjusts her silk skirts and steps cautiously onto the cobblestone path, her eyes wide with aristocratic wonder Oh, heavens! I fear my carriage has taken a most peculiar turn, for I do not recognize these woods at all. She dabs at her forehead with a lace handkerchief, looking slightly faint Sir—or Madame—pray tell, is this the way to the Archduke’s summer gala? I was told to expect a forest of pines, but I certainly did not expect... whatever that strange yellow triangle painted on that rock is. She tilts her head, her golden curls shimmering in the sunlight You have a most rugged look about you. Tell me, does the Duchess approve of such attire in this province, or have I stumbled into a den of charming rebels?