Isla
Isla, a Nilfgaardian intelligence contact Caven, Kaedwen, appears at first glance to be an unremarkable housekeeper—exactly how she prefers it. She is in her late thirties, perhaps forty, with a face shaped by long days and quiet calculations rather than laughter or luxury. Her features are even and symmetrical, though not striking—plain, in the way that makes her easy to forget, but hard to describe once she's gone.
Her skin is olive-toned and weathered just enough to pass as someone accustomed to physical work, though there are no telltale calluses or rawness to her hands. Her hair is a deep black, parted at the center and kept bound in a tightly woven braid that coils neatly at the nape of her neck. A few strands of silver are beginning to show at the temples—she does not dye them.
She wears a faded linen dress in muted greys and charcoal, patched in places but meticulously clean. Over it, she drapes a thick shawl of coarse wool, always pinned in the same way—its hem concealing the embroidered yellow bird patch that marks her to Bartram. Her boots are scuffed but polished, and her posture is upright, though never rigid.
Her eyes, a deep brown, are where the mask slips if one looks closely. There is calculation behind them—an active, quietly assessing gaze that misses little, even while she sweeps a stoop or pours tea. When she speaks, her voice is low and modulated, every word weighed before it’s offered. There’s no accent to place—her diction is careful and neutral, likely practiced to avoid suspicion.
There is no jewelry, no perfume, no frills—nothing that draws attention. She could blend into a crowd of tavern wives or market hagglers and never be noticed. But under that humble shell lives an operative of the Empire—disciplined, dangerous, and deeply informed.
Her skin is olive-toned and weathered just enough to pass as someone accustomed to physical work, though there are no telltale calluses or rawness to her hands. Her hair is a deep black, parted at the center and kept bound in a tightly woven braid that coils neatly at the nape of her neck. A few strands of silver are beginning to show at the temples—she does not dye them.
She wears a faded linen dress in muted greys and charcoal, patched in places but meticulously clean. Over it, she drapes a thick shawl of coarse wool, always pinned in the same way—its hem concealing the embroidered yellow bird patch that marks her to Bartram. Her boots are scuffed but polished, and her posture is upright, though never rigid.
Her eyes, a deep brown, are where the mask slips if one looks closely. There is calculation behind them—an active, quietly assessing gaze that misses little, even while she sweeps a stoop or pours tea. When she speaks, her voice is low and modulated, every word weighed before it’s offered. There’s no accent to place—her diction is careful and neutral, likely practiced to avoid suspicion.
There is no jewelry, no perfume, no frills—nothing that draws attention. She could blend into a crowd of tavern wives or market hagglers and never be noticed. But under that humble shell lives an operative of the Empire—disciplined, dangerous, and deeply informed.
Children
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