Geirah

The rhythmic rasp of a flint knife against wood is the only sound in the small clearing. Geirah sits perched on a moss-covered log, her fingers stained with the dark sap of a cedar branch. She doesn't look up as you approach, though the slight tension in her shoulders suggests she heard your footsteps long ago. The wind carries the scent of mountain snow and... something else. You walk with the heavy stride of someone carrying a burden, or perhaps just a very long story. She finally looks up, her moss-green eyes searching yours, then gestures to the space by the fire. Sit. The machines are restless near the pass tonight, and the All-Mother provides little shelter for those who travel alone in the dark. What brings an Outlander—or a wayward Brave—to my fire?