Ginevra Malatesta
Ginevra Malatesta is a human woman and the master cook of Merilrond, a position she has held for nearly twenty years. Dark-haired, olive-skinned and increasingly streaked with grey, she came originally from one of the warmer southern human lands of the Other Place and was already an accomplished professional cook before finding her way to the Golden Woods. What was initially intended to be another position in a long career became something rather more permanent. Ginevra liked Merilrond, liked its people and, perhaps most importantly, discovered an extraordinary variety of unfamiliar ingredients growing in the surrounding Woods. She stayed. Ginevra brought with her a culinary tradition rich in herbs, garlic, oils, vegetables, cheeses, wine and strongly flavoured sauces, which she gradually combined with the game, mushrooms, fruits, honey and woodland herbs of Anywyn. Over the years the kitchens of Merilrond have consequently developed a distinctive cuisine drawing upon both traditions. Ginevra is equally capable of preparing an elaborate feast for important visitors or turning yesterday's roast, a handful of onions and whatever happens to remain in the pantry into an excellent supper. She considers the latter a considerably better test of a cook.
Personality
Ginevra is warm, generous, opinionated and supremely confident in her own abilities. She enjoys feeding people and takes considerable satisfaction in seeing an empty plate returned to her kitchen, but she has little patience for fussiness, waste or anyone attempting to explain cooking to her while she is doing it. Rank provides no protection. Dîmeril herself learned long ago that Ginevra's kitchen is Ginevra's domain, and Sisters arriving with urgent requests are quite capable of being told that whatever Dîmeril wants will be ready when it is ready. Her formidable manner conceals considerable kindness. Ginevra notices who has returned tired from patrol, which ward has lost their appetite after a difficult day and who has quietly missed two meals because they were too busy to stop. She rarely makes a fuss about such things. Food simply appears. Anyone thanking her too extravagantly is likely to be told to eat it before it gets cold.
The Kitchens of Merilrond
Ginevra does not cook every meal herself. Merilrond is far too large for that, and she supervises a small kitchen staff drawn from retainers and older wards while teaching anyone genuinely interested in learning. What distinguishes her is an extraordinary understanding of ingredients, flavour and timing. She can taste a sauce once and identify what has gone wrong, judge the quality of unfamiliar produce almost immediately and improvise when supplies do not arrive as expected. The Translation to Warlderia therefore presented Ginevra with an unexpected consolation.
While everyone else was attempting to understand how an entire forest had arrived in another world, Ginevra discovered that the new world contained vegetables, spices, cheeses, fish and other ingredients she had never encountered. Her reaction was immediate curiosity. Warlderian traders visiting Merilrond have since become accustomed to the master cook examining unfamiliar produce and demanding to know what it is, where it grows and how the locals usually prepare it. She then frequently ignores the final answer and cooks it her own way. Ginevra's food has become one of the quieter pleasures of visiting Merilrond. Important guests may remember its roses, the Sisters or even meeting Dîmeril herself, but many also remember what they were served for dinner. Ginevra regards compliments about her genius with much the same scepticism that Hettie Barrow applies to praise of her weaving. “I'm a cook. It's supposed to taste good.”
Theren Copperkettle
Theren Copperkettle is an elderly Gnome and the steward of Elenrond, the Star Hall, where visitors to Merilrond are offered food, a bath and a bed for the night. Short, broad and comfortably stout, Theren has thick grey-white hair, a neatly kept beard and the deeply lined face of someone who has spent considerably more of his life smiling than frowning. He has served the household of Merilrond for many years and Dîmeril trusts him sufficiently that the everyday running of Elenrond is left almost entirely in his hands. Theren assigns the Hall's thirty beds, issues keys for the lockable chests, keeps the guest register and oversees the stores, linen, baths, laundry and kitchens. He also supervises the wards and retainers who work in Elenrond and sees that three good meals appear every day. He has an irritating ability to know precisely how many beds are occupied without consulting his register, which chest has developed a troublesome lock, how much flour remains in the kitchen and which guest has quietly returned for a fourth helping of breakfast. Theren regards this as nothing remarkable. It is simply what a steward is supposed to know.
Personality
Theren is warm, cheerful and remarkably difficult to offend. A mud-covered pilgrim receives much the same welcome as a wealthy merchant and titles count for very little when someone is standing at his desk looking tired and asking whether there is a bed available. Those arriving frightened, exhausted or penniless are not made to feel embarrassed about it. If Theren has an empty bed he gives them one, and if they are hungry he points them towards the kitchen. Payment is neither demanded nor expected for the ordinary hospitality of Elenrond, although those wishing to leave coin, provisions or offer some useful service are welcome to do so. His usual rule is simple: “Under this roof, you're a guest until you give me reason to call you something else.”
Theren's good humour should not be mistaken for foolishness. He travelled widely when younger and has met enough merchants, adventurers, mercenaries, pilgrims, thieves, nobles, refugees, priests and charlatans to have developed a very good eye for people. He notices muddy boots when the roads have been dry, travellers supposedly unknown to one another carrying equipment from the same armourer, people who spend more time watching doors than conversations and guests who ask rather too casually about Merilrond. He seldom confronts such people immediately. Usually he simply keeps smiling and watches a little more closely. Minor trouble earns a quiet word from Theren. Serious trouble generally discovers that the amiable old Gnome has already sent for someone considerably better equipped to deal with it.
Dîmeril and Elenrond
Dîmeril seldom interferes with the running of the Star Hall. Elenrond is Theren's responsibility and if he says that the Hall needs something repaired, replaced or purchased, the matter is usually settled without much discussion. Theren is nevertheless very clear about the distinction between Elenrond and Merilrond. He may offer almost anyone food, shelter and one of his beds, but he does not grant strangers entrance to Dîmeril's home. An invitation across the threshold of Merilrond is another matter entirely. Their long acquaintance has also left Theren notably unimpressed by Dîmeril's position when domestic matters are concerned. He is one of the relatively few people prepared to interrupt her, put a plate of food in front of her and inform her that she has missed supper again. Dîmeril generally eats it.
Thargrim Valevoice
Thargrim Valevoice is a Dwarven bard, historian and chronicler who has lived at Merilrond for almost twenty years. A widely travelled Dwarf with a magnificent bass voice and an enduring fascination with history, Thargrim originally came to the Golden Woods as a visitor and simply never found a sufficiently compelling reason to leave. He is not employed by Dîmeril and holds no formal position within her household. Merilrond provides him with rooms, meals and somewhere to keep his steadily expanding collection of books and papers, while Thargrim has gradually assumed responsibility for much of the Hall's secular archive. For Thargrim, memory is an obligation. People die, eyewitnesses disagree and stories change with every retelling. He therefore records important events, collects correspondence and testimony, maintains genealogies and attempts to establish what actually happened before memory becomes legend. His records have become sufficiently useful that although nobody ever appointed Thargrim chronicler of Merilrond, everyone now treats him as though somebody did.
Chronicler
Thargrim greatly admires Dîmeril but has no intention of becoming her propagandist. If she makes a mistake, he records it. If witnesses disagree, he preserves both accounts, and if the truth cannot be established he says so. Dîmeril once objected that an event had not happened as Thargrim described it. He replied, “Aye. I've written that down too.” His stubborn independence is one of the reasons she trusts him. Thargrim nevertheless understands the difference between preserving history and invading the privacy of living people. Some records are sealed, particularly where the wards and younger members of the household are concerned, while matters he considers nobody else's business may never be written down at all. He has watched generations of children grow up at Merilrond and possesses embarrassing documentary evidence concerning many of them, but has no desire to preserve their genuine unhappiness merely for the curiosity of future historians.
Bard and Historian
Thargrim remains very much a bard. He plays a small Dwarven harp and possesses a deep bass voice particularly suited to old lays, marching songs and laments. He also carries a battleaxe and has travelled enough of the world to know how to use it. He collects songs wherever he goes, regarding them as valuable historical evidence despite frequently complaining that “songs are what happens when history gets drunk.” This has occasionally brought him into conflict with more enthusiastic performers. One popular account of the Battle of Low Harbour claims that Dîmeril personally slew thirty Orcs. Dîmeril remembers four and Sabine remembers seven. Unable to establish the precise number, Thargrim eventually recorded that Dîmeril killed “at least four.” He considers the matter satisfactorily resolved. Thargrim is also a familiar figure at local inns, where travellers provide an endless supply of stories, rumours and occasionally useful eyewitness testimony. His habit of questioning people after several drinks has been criticised as dubious historical methodology. Thargrim maintains that people often reveal useful details when drunk. Others point out that they also tell lies. Thargrim regards determining which is which as part of his job. Amongst the Elves and Half-Elves of Merilrond it can sometimes seem that there will always be somebody alive who remembers the past. Thargrim knows better. Even Elves eventually die, and memories begin changing long before then. So he continues writing, filling shelf after shelf with journals, letters, conflicting accounts and carefully annotated histories which future scholars may one day regard as priceless. Thargrim simply calls it “the paperwork.”
Thargrim has known Seraphine Valecourt since she was Poppy Fenwick, a talented and conspicuously attention-seeking child at Merilrond, and although he genuinely admires her voice and ability as a performer, he considers her attitude towards historical accuracy appalling. Their principal disagreement is that Thargrim believes a bard has a responsibility to preserve what actually happened, while Seraphine believes a bard's first responsibility is to ensure that what happened is worth listening to. He consequently objects to songs such as The Redcap's Run, in which Poppy has rearranged events, multiplied enemies and invented dramatic moments, while she dismisses his complaints with the observation that “It's a ballad, Thargrim, not a witness statement.” More frustratingly for Seraphine, Thargrim knows considerably more than she does about the true relationship between Luin and Dîmeril but steadfastly refuses to reveal anything, despite repeated attempts involving charm, wine, flattery and suspicious interest in his archives. Musically the pair get on remarkably well: Thargrim's deep bass voice and Dwarven harp complement Seraphine's lighter voice and lute, and he appears at the Bashful Brownie to perform with her rather more frequently than his claims of pressing historical work would suggest. Beneath their constant professional arguments lies considerable affection and mutual respect, although neither is likely to admit quite how highly they regard the other's talents.
Hettie Barrow
Hettie Barrow is an elderly Half-Elven weaver of the Golden Woods and one of its most accomplished textile workers. Short, comfortably stout and thoroughly unimpressed by pretension, Hettie has spent the greater part of her long life working with wool, linen and the far more troublesome Golden Woods spidersilk. Hettie learned her trade when young and has practised it for decades. She can spin, dye and weave most common fibres, but her reputation rests upon her extraordinary skill with spidersilk. Raw spidersilk is notoriously difficult to work. Its fibres must be carefully cleaned, separated and spun, while weaving requires precise control of the tension. In inexperienced hands the threads catch, bind and produce an uneven cloth. Hettie makes it look easy. It isn't. When once asked how she produced such an exceptionally even spidersilk weave, Hettie answered: “Practice.” When asked how much practice was required, she considered the question. “About sixty years.” Hettie produces everything from lightweight tunics and translucent spidersilk gauze to magnificent formal gowns and the heavier material she matter-of-factly calls double-weave. Her work is particularly renowned for its durability and extraordinarily fine finish.
Personality
Hettie is warm, practical and generally good-humoured. She enjoys conversation while she works and possesses an extensive knowledge of local families, births, marriages, romances and arguments accumulated over a very long lifetime. She is not particularly interested in status. Ranger Lords, Sisters, merchants and children all receive much the same Hettie. She is proud of her craft, however, and has little patience for people who mistake textile work for some pleasant pastime undertaken by elderly women. Weaving is her trade, spidersilk is difficult material, and Hettie is exceptionally good at it. She also dislikes waste. Watching someone mistreat a fine spidersilk garment is one of the relatively few reliable ways of genuinely irritating her.
Hettie has known Seraphine Valecourt, Poppy Fenwick to those who knew her as a child, for most of Poppy's life. This means Hettie is largely immune to Seraphine. Poppy owns several fine spidersilk garments, including pieces suitable for her performances, and has been pestering Hettie about beautiful fabrics since adolescence. Hettie likes her enormously. She simply refuses to be impressed by her. Seraphine's glamorous performances have nevertheless done Hettie's trade considerable good. Travellers see the bard dressed in Golden Woods spidersilk, admire the unusual material and begin asking where it came from. Hettie therefore benefits considerably from Poppy's vanity. She has been tactful enough never to phrase it quite that way.
Reputation
The growing value of Golden Woods spidersilk has inevitably encouraged imitation. Cloth containing only a little spidersilk—or sometimes none at all—is occasionally sold elsewhere under impressive claims of Anywyn manufacture. Hettie's work is consequently identifiable by a tiny barrow-shaped knot woven directly into the inside hem. Originally this was simply her maker's mark. It has since become something approaching a guarantee of quality. Merchants familiar with Golden Woods textiles will actively look for the little barrow, and a garment bearing it can command a substantial premium outside the Woods. Hettie finds this mildly ridiculous. Within the Golden Woods, Hettie is not treated as some celebrated artist. She is simply Hettie Barrow, the weaver. That understatement disguises the considerable reputation her work has acquired beyond Anywyn. A wealthy outsider might pay hundreds of gold pieces for one of her finest gowns. Merchants recognise her mark. Nobles may wait months for a commission, and particularly elaborate double-weave garments can require several months of work. Hettie's response to such enthusiasm remains characteristically grounded. A merchant once remarked that one of her finished spidersilk tunics could fetch an extraordinary price in a distant city. Hettie nodded. “Could do. But it's still a shirt” That is perhaps Hettie Barrow in miniature: an extraordinary craftswoman who sees nothing extraordinary about doing her job properly.