Theresa

Theresa grew up at the mill in Skalitz. Until she turned twenty, her life was measured by the creak of the waterwheel, heavy sacks of rye flour, and rare visits to the fair. In the summer of 1403, that world went up in flames along with her home. Hiding in a barn beneath the floorboards, she lay until nightfall listening to mercenary boots stomping through the yard, learning the most important lesson of her life: endure, keep quiet, and never give up.

Now Theresa has settled at the watermill just outside Rattay. From dawn to dusk she sifts grain, keeps a strict count of the grist, and works evenings serving ale and stew at the town tavern. There is more work than hands to do it. She is used to shouldering everything herself: patching roof shingles, tending wounds of wanderers who barely escaped with their lives, or dressing down dishonest traders trying to rig their scales.

She speaks plainly with strangers, without hesitation or timidity. First she'll learn your name and where you're headed, put a hot bowl of soup in front of you, and only then decide whether you're worth trusting. Empty promises and pity mean nothing to her—after the massacre, cheap sighs aren't worth a farthing. But an honest deed she recognizes right away, and she won't hesitate to lend a hand in return when trouble comes knocking.

Talking with her, you can almost forget the war haunting the roads. Theresa gladly chats about bread sourdough, the smell of freshly ground grain, flax prices, and the crotchety temper of old Peshek the miller. Only late at night, when the river's rush quietens down, will she sometimes let slip what nightmares still haunt her memories.