Una is from Bardney Fens, and like her ancestors before her, is fierce for fairness and rights. Fen folk remember when the land was wild and common, and Una will not swerve from that memory. She isn’t exactly outspoken, but her morals run deep, and she carries them out in small, subversive acts and a stubborn attitude.
Una, according to those who know her
Harrow, who once traded for her spore-bags:
Used to grow fine things, did Una—mushrooms, mostly, and them strange herbs that don’t take kindly to rows and borders. Folk say she knew what to do with a spore before she knew her own name. Might’ve done well for herself, if she’d kept to the rules. But she never took to Evergild ways. Carried on without permits, grew what she liked, where she liked. Got fined for it, then more fines when she didn’t pay. After that, it was a short path to ruin.
Pell, the weaver, who gives her leftovers when she can:
She lives on next to nothing now. Bit of foraging, bit of luck. Drinks most evenings in The Toad, brings her opinions of course, never looks at you unless you’ve brought something worth hearing. Never married, that we know, never softened, but there’s pride in her, and a stubborn edge that folk respect, even if they won’t say so. The kind that bites if you pet it wrong.
Old Marlen, from the barstool nearest the hearth:
She’s a proud reminder of the fen folk, if you believe in ’em. Smells of damp and bark and the back side of a cellar. You’ll know her by the coat—patched, wool, and sort of waxy—and the way she watches a person like she’s weighing up what they’re hiding.
An unnamed voice near the door, glass in hand:
Don’t ask too much, and don’t lie to her. If she likes you, she’ll say so by not saying anything at all.