Ravensblood Forest Yer family tree is a wreath

For someone born 'n raised in Dreadmurk (for all that she knew anyhow), the world outside was too vast and empty for the likes of her. What had possessed the madam to go gallivanting outside of civilization? The chance at something new and different was a lure, surely, but the bravery of the drink was what urged her to take the initial plunge. Now — seven hells, Farren was not only sober but she was lost.
Bless yer heart, but brains weren’t in yer ration this week. She bemoaned herself and her circumstances, drawn in to a stumbling wander along the beachfront until the earth tilted her path up towards a ridge, and then in to the safety of tall trees. It was darker here and that helped her red-rimmed eyes; however, the wench stood out regardless with her pale coat and too-tall stature.
Oi, ‘ello? Any soul what ain’t a ghost hauntin’ this place, then?

shamelessly presents my partial inspiration when creating farren..

Even as winter clutched the wilds, the forest provided. Murkwood's caches were stacked to the brim with meat from their past hunt and fish from the river nearby - enough to feed the growing crew and more. The captain had, for lack of better words, grown used to a full belly. As his confidence grew, so did his greed, and while some may have turned soft the moment things became easy, Noxir instead wished to sink his teeth into more.

He itched for something exciting beyond the shadows of the trees, and while he wished not to throw his seamen into a raid without a scout, there remained something intriguing about the territories unclaimed. Purpose drew him into a lope towards the northwestern border, until a voice broke his pace and he shuddered to a halt. 

At first he thought it the noise of the wind through the old sequoias but there it came again - achingly familiar and urging him to investigate. Her figure was not hard to miss. "Farren?" the words stuck to his throat in disbelief and emotion. "Well blow me down and feed me to tha' fishes, what are ye doin' here?"

It was the worst. It simply was the worst! Farren could not fathom what had possessed her to roam like this, especially when a warm home with fresh (ish) grog was available the opposite direction. Or, maybe she was heading home? Really, truly, Farren had no idea where she was, and as her aching brain ran through a laundry list of epithets and curses which were all self-directed, she heard a voice that was familiar.
Eyes brightly lit upon the swarthy figure; but then she squinted, because ow, daylight.
Nox?! What the hell was he doing all the way out here? Oi, if this was some type of jest—was this a dark trick? Had he been her drinking partner? Farren hurried up the rise to meet his waiting silhouette, long limbs devouring the territory between them.
It been the drink! Me last customer paid me with swill. Absolute garbage, that there stuff. One o' these days she'd give up the drink, but, even a trash brew could not be ignored.
What've you?