Exile Lorraine Alohnsohn

The city-starved countryside isn’t unfamiliar in any region, but in the Kingdom of Ivory Cliffs, Lorraine finds it all the more noticeable. She listens to the wind blow across the rocky, white landscape, and how it snakes through the scratchy bushes to her right. The ground doesn’t rumble with the clattering of wagon wheels or thumps of bootfalls, there’s no smell of fresh baked bread and pastries, and there’s no voices to fill the nothingness in front of their eyes. A cloud of smoke wafts into their face from the fire burning in front of them. A cut of the pronghorn they’d shot down earlier roasted over the hungry flames, infusing the smoke with a meaty scent.
Lorraine cracks their neck with a blacksteel-gauntleted hand. Her body is sore from constant travel and the weight of her armor, but she refuses to ever take it off—even when she sleeps. They keep their greataxe and greatshield beside them at all times as well. One can never be too careful when on the road, and she doesn’t plan on being caught off guard ever again.