[PQ] baker's dozen [seasonal event]

In the ten long years the bakery’s stood empty, someone - not sure who - has created either a covered walkway or tunnels connecting various buildings. Wessex rarely rouses herself during the daytime anymore, but she’s secretly a little fond of Amalia (these afflictions are few and far between, best cherish them) , and when she hears the baker is looking for some muscle, the sour-faced woman obliges. She may not, personally, eat anymore, but others do - and who doesn’t like the smell of baking bread in the morning? Covered in her usual cloak, hood drawn and appendages well protected by the usual edges, the fellow Natural moves slowly from shadow to shadow. It feels as if she’s got a bit of the old-fashioned flu coming on, minus the fever, but it makes the arrogant grump only grumpier. Others might think she’s hungover. Entering through a back door, she comes upon the group through the storeroom (and yes, it is painfully empty). Her movements are more like a mortal woman of 50 than a spry super-human, but the strength is likely still there - she’ll just be paying for it later. Eyes dart from crow-shifter to Amalia, and then to the Outlander, where they narrow ever so slightly. Odd little party. “Morning,” she grunts to the three of them, before plopping down against a wall, well away from any stray beams of light.   WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm