Lorraine still lays in bed, soundly asleep. She had fought so far to keep a room to herself so far, insisting on her privacy when sleeping. Her room is covered in all many of strange knick knacks: Thin, ratty tapestries on the walls, a dream catcher hanging over the bed, shiny but relatively worthless colorful stones in seemingly random locations about the room, multiple hanging wooden pendants
, as well as several identical symbols
drawn on paper and posted onto the walls and doors. The room also bears some more common looking things one might associate with a mercenary adventurer: Large sword, leather armor, a small book shelf lined with books in multiple languages, a hawk standing on a metal perch, a desk covered in pouches and jars filed with odd substances, a few low quality arcane artifacts that might have had some power to them when her grandfather was in diapers, and her money bag. The floor is littered with clothes, and somewhere under it all the floor ends and her mattress begins. It was messy, but very comfortable.
Lorraine herself was, by contrast, very clean looking. She could pass for a very large, animated china doll if not for the ridiculousness of the idea. She would sleep well into mid-morning, if allowed to, but such was not to be the case today. A sharp poke on her neck and a mental nudging from her familiar pulled her, fghting all the way, to wakefulness. Sadly for Lorraine, Hawks do not sleep 'til mid-morning, and they enjoy eating much as any other animal does. She rose groggily, and smiled patiently. She speaks softly, in a sort of scratchy mezzo-soprano:
"Mm. Morning, Aaron. I'll get dressed... Just be patient, baby."
She stroked the hawk's neck affectionately, and mentally bade him return to his perch. A few minutes later, she collected herself and took Aaron to find some breakfast for the pair of them.