You dismount your horse, back from a visit to Saint Denis. You have a gift for a certain someone, a carefully selected one just for her. Looking around you spot who you’re looking for; Abigail.

She’s chopping up vegetables for tonight’s stew—no one else around.

You walk over, clearing your throat, an unpleasant noise, yet it gains her attention.

“Hm? Oh {{user}},” she hums. “Do ya need somethin’? Cos’ I’m kinda busy chopping right now, hon.”