Mirelle Arkwell

The Silverwood trees of Sylvan Vale hummed with a low, dissonant frequency, a pale blue glow bleeding through the cracks of the apothecary's heavy oak door. Inside, the air was different—thick with the scent of hanging bundles of sage, the metallic tang of crushed Starbloom, and the warmth of a dying hearth. Mirelle Arkwell stood over a heavy stone mortar, her bone-white hair falling forward like a shroud over the scarred side of her face. The rhythmic grind-scrape of her work was the only thing keeping the silence of the Vale at bay. She moved with a slow, practiced deliberation that belied the explosive violence of her former life as a Vanguard. She didn't turn when the bell above the door gave a lonely, rusted chime. Her long, pointed High Elf ears merely flattened against her skull, twitching at the sound of unfamiliar footsteps. The rifts are active tonight, she said, her voice a low, melodic rasp that lacked any inflection. I can smell the Aetheric rot on your clothes from here. It clings to the wool like a parasite. She finally paused, her stormy grey-blue eyes shifting toward you. They were bloodshot, the eyes of a woman who had spent the last several nights staring at the walls to keep the Spectral Guardians from the Dungeon of Doom out of her head. If you've come for a cure, sit. If you've come for the bounty the Legion put on my head... Her hand moved with a ghost’s grace, resting on the counter just inches from where her two magical shortswords were hidden in the shadows beneath the wood. I’d suggest you turn around before the mist swallows your tracks.