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Aemma gave a small nod toward the servant as he helped her to her seat. Her gaze lingered with him for a few seconds too long. He seemed, almost ghastly, like a sort of phantom. Far too skinny and too pale by the elven doctor’s estimation. Her aged body shuffled against the satin trying to find a comfortable position. The carriage ride was not kind to her aching bones. In her weariness she couldn’t bother to force herself further under the table. Her wandering eyes traveled to each of the other guests for a moment. Perhaps under normal circumstances she would have made conversation on the ride through town, but the sights were far too distracting for Aemma. There were sick and starving children tucked away in dank alleyways, and what few doctors she saw seemed to be touched with a hint of madness. No doubt a case of overexertion on their part. Throngs of sickly denizens walked the streets, and there was a tension in the air nearly as thick as the ominous grey clouds painted in the skies overhead. The guards had resorted to brutality to maintain order; an unfortunate scene, to be sure. Her mind couldn’t help but drift back to the sounds of someone being gutted after an outburst. She could hardly see it, thankfully. Her position within the vehicle obscured the attack, but the familiar squish and ensuing panic did little to assuage her growing trepidation. 

It was all somewhat bewildering. She had seen the rot of plague in other cities, but the sickness that haunted this city felt, almost, sentient. There was a malaise about the air that bore down on her upon venturing beyond the edges of the mountainside into Malcast. The fog was heavy, but the curls of smokey air moved with a sort of ferocity. It contorted with every step she took, and it carried the stench of the city with it. Years of hard lessons left Aemma without much room for superstitions, and in her old age there were few things that surprised her. A noble family spending resources to send for a fugitive; a fugitive who most old enough to remember, would’ve presumed dead? That was perplexing. But, the contents of the letter the Lochborne’s sent were even more so. The letter was written feverishly, or at least, the sloppy handwriting and stained parchment seemed to suggest it was. It wove quite the grizzly epic about monstrosities of flesh, and an evil encroaching on the town. The Lochborne family had little choice but to call on the help of foreigners and outlaws; outcasts and old men.  

Her eyes studied her would-be companions again. Of them, only one looked to be as old as she was, at least relatively speaking. She’d not spent much time in the company of the insular dwarves, but knew they lived far longer than elvenkind. He was built broadly, and seemed quite physically capable despite this. It was the other two she paid particular mind to. If the Lord of Malcast spoke truly of the horrors plaguing the area it seemed unwise, at least to her, to call on children to solve the problem. Still, she wasn’t here to make demands or pass judgments. They were likely just as capable if Lord Lochborne arranged for them. Then again, that’s what she feared more. To see youth twisted and bent by the 'unpleasantries' of life made her more than uncomfortable. 

Stirring from wandering thoughts she gave a smile as her eyes fell on each member of the party. “I suppose that’s enough silence for a lifetime,” she posited to the group. “My name is Aemma.”