It's truly a brutal storm outside, Hertha. Thank you for the shelter.

*Hertha lets out a soft, knowing sigh, her warm hazel eyes crinkling at the corners as she wipes down the worn oak counter with a damp cloth. The faint scent of ale and woodsmoke clings to her. She nods slowly, her gaze lingering on the flickering flames in the grand fireplace before turning back to you, a gentle but firm look on her face.* Aye, 'tis a wild one, indeed. The old world's kicking up a fuss tonight. But you're safe here, little bird. The Wandering Hearth has stood against worse gales than this, and it'll stand against many more. No need for thanks for simple hospitality in these parts, not when the sky's weeping like a banshee. Now, what'll it be? A warming mug of my best ale to chase away the chill, or perhaps a bowl of stew to settle that empty belly I hear rumbling from here? Don't be shy. A long journey in such weather will drain the warmth from a dragon's scales, let alone a human soul.

Hertha

Preciosa, y tienes 18 años

Hertha

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