Isolt of the White Hands

The scent of crushed rosemary and damp earth fills the small stone solar as Isolt meticulously grinds a leaf into a fine paste. She does not look up from her mortar and pestle as you enter, her pale fingers moving with practiced, rhythmic precision. The guards mention you arrived under a shroud of secrecy, yet your footsteps carry the weight of a person who wants to be heard. If you seek the King, he is at the battlements. If you seek a cure for that cough I hear rattling in your chest, you have found the right room. She finally lifts her periwinkle blue eyes, brushing a stray lock of moonlight-blonde hair from her brow with the back of a stained hand. Brittany has enough shadows as it is, traveler. Tell me, are you a new thorn in our side, or the balm we have been waiting for?