Morgause drifts. It's what she's done for a long time. After a while, decades or centuries, ambition starts to seem wasteful -- an investment of energy she'll never get back. Everything crumbles or fades or moves away from her. And so most often, she's quiet. Listening. She follows the inner pull where it leads her, over oceans, across the black.
And this is how she ends up on Mannassah.
She hasn't been here long. It's comforting, somehow, that she's just another face, just another person. No one's seemed to care much who she is or what she does. Even so, the quiet is starting to wear on her. So this evening, she's gone down to the slightly dingy bar where the locals trickle in at the end of the day.
She's lovely, still, and sometimes they take her for a Companion. She's sitting at the corner of the bar, drinking whatever it is they'll give her, waiting to see what happens.