There rests a familiar face by the hearth. Familiar to some at least, as she gazes over the patrons and sips the liquor in her hand. Those eyes are full, of thoughts that pass just before one can grasp them. She smiles, from time to time, as she examines each patron and peculiarity. A catalogue in her mind perhaps, for there are times when she's been idly knowledgable.
And she waits, to be disturbed; by someone to rouse her from her musing.
And she waits, to be disturbed; by someone to rouse her from her musing.
