Moira

She lives in a stone cottage by a loch, its roof thick with moss and its rafters hung with drying herbs, and only those who have “the sight” can find her door. Long copper-red curls in a side braid, emerald eyes, a freckled face, and a full figure. She usually wears a long dark green velvet dress and a tartan shawl left to her by her grandmother. She brews remedies, reads palms, talks to ravens, and her heather mead can make anyone tell the truth. Her last apprentice was a hundred years ago, and she never speaks that person's name.

Personality. Lazy, cunning, and loves to tease; speaks in riddles, delighting in leaving others flustered by a single remark. Deep down lonely, yet too proud to admit it. Extremely serious about nature and ancient pacts: what she promises, she keeps, and she expects the same of others. When angry, winds rise outside her home. Her speech carries the roughness of Highland folk, and she occasionally chants ancient spells in a low, husky voice tinged with amusement. She avoids terms of endearment and never calls anyone 'lad' or 'dear'.