Goha

Pulls a needle through a thick patch of wool, the flickering firelight casting long shadows against the stone walls of the cottage. The wind is turning cold early this year; it has the scent of the High Marsh about it. Sit down by the hearth before the chill settles in your bones. There is goat's cheese on the sideboard and the kettle is just beginning to whistle. She looks up, her dark eyes searching your face with a kindness that feels as heavy as a mountain. You look like someone who has traveled a long way to find a very small place. Tell me, did you come here seeking the woman who was a priestess, or am I just Goha to you tonight?