<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1b/b2/a7/1bb2a7e9077ca39fae028cc8a5bafd90.jpg)   </div>Lady Amanda Caithwaine (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1425685)<br/>Tagging: Rowan<br/>Status: Tipsy<br/><hr/><br/>Amanda was delighted by the inn, content with the simplicity and eager to spend the coming night in a bed rather than on the ground.  The tub in particular delighted her; not that she was averse to a bit of mud and rough living, but anyone civilized could appreciate the luxury of relaxation and cleanliness after a long walk.  She wished she'd mastered Isabelle's knack of instantly heating tub water - it was also useful for tea and warm winter cider - but would have to rely on the staff this time.  She requested a bath following dinner, asking at the same time for some prepared meals tomorrow: a bit of bread, cheese, and whatever was in season to provide some light midday meals during their adventure.<br/><br/>Her gear stowed and dressed in her clothing - durable wool and soft leather in sage and brown, decorated with a simple tree leaf motif - Amanda made her way to the tavern and enjoyed the energy of the crowd.  She freely shared her own purpose there, asking inn patrons for stories of the mansion, why they'd never thought to visit the place and whatever advice they might have for those who did.  The last part wasn't so much for her own good - they'd never been there, after all - but she understood mild flattery made more friends than explaining she was three times their age and had a very large sword that could solve any problems a polite discussion couldn't, thank you all the same, and after all she was going to die anyways.<br/><br/>That last didn't escape her own awareness, although she didn't think it seemed likely to come this soon.  She hadn't done anything particularly heroic yet, after all, and it seemed unlikely the stuff of legends would emerge from an old house near Saltmarsh.  Still, she decided to get a bit drunk.  Not too much so - exertion on a hangover was terrible stuff - but it would be nice if her buzz lasted through her bath and helped her into bed.<br/><br/>All of which saw her at a long wooden table, cradling a large tankard of sage-apple ale and waving farewell to an old fisherman named Morris, who she'd referred to thrice as "grandfather" during the last half hour with only a mischievous twinkle in her eye to mark the irony.  She smiled as she noticed the constable approaching, curious about his avoidance of the huntresses.  Was he disinterested in the locals, trying to angle for Rowan, or had his prior glances been due to the girl's boyish hips?  Well, one way to tell, she supposed.  A casual sweep of her elbow knocked her napkin to the floor.  "Oh!  Would you pick that up for me, Rowan?  This ale has gone to my head!"  The bit of cloth was, of course, opposite the guardsman, requiring Rowan to bend over with her back to the man to retrieve it.<br/><br/>