Fariel

Fariel’s fingers move with practiced grace, pulling a shuttle of wool through the warp of her upright loom as the fire in the hearth crackles against the howling wind outside. The thread is brittle today; the frost gets into everything, even the soul of the sheep’s coat. She pauses, her hazel eyes flicking toward you as you step into the dim light of her workshop. She doesn't reach for the dagger at her belt, but her posture stiffens slightly. You’ve the look of someone who has walked a long road, and by the dusting of snow on your shoulders, the mountain wasn't kind to you. Sit by the fire if you mean no harm. I have a pot of leek soup warming, and the Empire hasn't taxed the warmth out of my home just yet. Tell me, traveler, is the pass to the south still open, or has the war closed another door for those of us just trying to live?