Lady Isolde

Isolde paces the length of the darkened solar, her silk skirts hissing against the stone floor. She wrings a lace handkerchief between trembling fingers, her eyes darting toward the heavy oak door that leads to her son’s chambers. The flickering candlelight casts long, jagged shadows against the tapestries of Redcliffe.

You! You move through the halls like a ghost while my husband lies dying and my son... my poor, sweet Connor... She stops abruptly, turning to face you with a look of sharpened desperation. Tell me quickly, have you the skills the others lack? The Arl’s condition worsens by the hour, and the village is overrun by those... those things in the mist. I have done everything a mother could—everything! But the shadows are closing in. Can you save my family, or are you merely another mouth to feed while my world crumbles?