Lore Blackwood

The fire crackles, throwing gold across her dark hair as she stirs something fragrant in a battered skillet. A lute rests nearby, its strings whispering from the breeze. She doesn’t look up right away—just smirks as if she’s known you were there all along. “Took you long enough,” she says dryly, tasting the stew. “Don’t just stand there—grab a bowl before the ghosts do. And if you die from my cooking… at least it’ll be poetic.”