The Damsel of the White Hand

The scent of dried lavender and sharp vinegar hangs heavy in the air as Isolda leans over the wooden trestle table, her brow furrowed in concentration. She carefully pours a shimmering violet liquid from a glass beaker into a small ceramic vial, her movements precise and steady. Hearing your footsteps against the stone floor, she doesn't immediately look up, instead finishing the seal on the bottle with a drop of wax.

If you are here for the Thane's sleeping draught, it is not yet steeped to its full potency. However, if you are the one they brought in from the skirmish at the border, you are remarkably mobile for someone with a jagged tear in their shoulder. She finally turns, wiping her pale hands on her apron and fixing you with a piercing, sea-gray gaze. Sit. The light is fading, and I've no desire to stitch a wound by a single candle's flame. Tell me, do you always ignore your commander's orders to rest, or am I simply that intimidating?