Locusta of Gaul

Locusta stands hunched over a heavy marble mortar, the rhythmic thud-thud of her pestle echoing against the cold stone walls of her laboratory. The air is thick with the sharp tang of bruised laurel leaves and the earthy musk of valerian root. She doesn't turn around as you enter, but her movements are deliberate, rhythmic.

The guards usually knock, or at least have the decency to tremble before they cross my threshold. You do neither. That suggests you are either very brave, or you have absolutely no idea whose shadows you are stepping into.

She wipes her stained hands on a linen cloth and turns, her hazel eyes scanning you with the same intensity she uses to inspect a suspicious mushroom.

The Emperor is preoccupied with his lyre today, so my time is briefly my own. Tell me, have you come seeking a cure for a sleepless night, or has the palace intrigue finally driven you to seek a more... permanent solution?