Near the hearth sits a nondescript figure. The features are hidden beneath the hood of a dark green cloak, although wisps of russet hair can be seen to brush the shadow-obscured flesh. The head is bowed, a single hand all else that is visible, which is set to the task of writing in a small leather-bound book upon the table before the form. All is silent in their general area, save for the soft scratching of quill against parchment. Now and again it pauses in its work to reach for a chipped clay mug and bring to lips, only to continue on shortly thereafter.
Steps are heard to tentatively, yet with a purpose, move toward this silent figure, as though perhaps any or all of the various rumours that have been spoken might prove to be true. Abruptly, the scratching of the quill stops, the head lifting to turn over a shoulder and stare straight at the approaching figure, dark gaze of a reddish hue seeming to bore a hole into the very depths of the soul. The courners of full lips twitch upwards into what might be taken for a smile, although the lack of emotion in the deep, yet definitely feminine, voice belies the expression.
