The faint orange light washed the pine walls of the town hall as Remia greedily devoured the historical accounts of Garithos's military exploits. Hours earlier she had flung off her boots and slid up the volumninous sleeves of her peasant shirt anyone would have mistaken her for a striking gardener rather than an archmage capable of singeing off the nose hairs of an ogre at fifty paces. She looking almost childlike with her feet resting on one of the long trestle tables absently sipping the lemonade the cook had left her as she poured over the tome.