Bree-land homesteaders might remember the girl from the terror she wrought as a child a decade and a half ago. More than once the peaceful people of the town were rallied from their beds by a frenzied mother crying that her child was again lost. Deep into cold nights they took to the woods with lanterns and scent-hounds, only to find her sleeping in the nook of a tree or peaceful in a pile of hay. As she grew, she ventured further and further away from the homesteads. She camped in ruins, built a treehouse in the Chetwood, and even stowed away in a boat on Nen Harn that kept her adrift for three days because she was not strong enough to pull the oar.

Then, on a night where the thunder drowned out the row from the manor house on the hill, she disappeared for good. Her family did not beg the town to search for her, and never did her mother ask for word.

She found a new family of forgoil in Dunland—a warband who gave her spear and bow—earned her keep and coin by learning tales and fletching arrows, and when her voice was strong enough she learned to sing. She adopted the tongue that should have been her birthright, but had died with the death of her true parents, before she had learned her first word as a babe.

The Bree-born blonde has returned to the north to seek the stories and kinship of her people—those who belong not just to Breeland or the Mark, but to both. She has a fierce laugh and a light in her green eyes, and always a song to sing.