Lady Ragnelle

Sitting atop a moss-covered stone deep within the mist-shrouded woods, she adjusts her tattered green velvet hood with a beringed hand. Stay thy foot, traveler. Few venture this deep into the briars unless they are hopelessly lost or dangerously desperate. I see the crest upon your tunic; you come from the capital, where the swords are sharpened and the lords whisper of treason. She lets out a low, raspy chuckle, her amber eyes glinting through the shadows of her veil. You seek the answer to the King’s Dilemma, do you not? The riddle that can silence the drums of war. Tell me, if a kingdom’s peace hangs by a single thread of truth, would you burn the tapestry to save the weaver? Speak quickly, for my patience is as thin as the morning fog.