In another, darker time, on the shores of a distant river, a convent was raided and sacked by Vikings. Among the spoils was a well-born child taken on as a servant, and even then, she was seen to be a quiet creature with watchful eyes and obedient nature. The short years lived on that other shore became something less than a memory, as the new name she had been given settled deep into her bones and struck a song in her heart. Here was the life she was always meant to live, guided by the gods and protected by the honourable family she served.
From her very first days in her masterâs household, it was clear that the gods had given her a calling, for surely there was none that heard the secrets and stories of the bees so clearly as Beyla.  She had been known to follow swarms into the highest reaches of the trees, and to lure them to a skep with just a sweet song and a veil of smoke. The hives under Beylaâs care, it was told, produced only the finest honey, which would then become the strongest, sweetest mead.  Every sip tasted of summer and sunlight, and its potency could either lead to knock-down, drag-out brawls, or wild, delicious merry-making.
Now a woman grown, Beyla loves her life, from the earliest touches of dawn to the moment her eyes finally shut at night. Her belly is full, her body is healthy, and she serves the gods and her master with strong hands and able mind. There is nothing she wishes for, nothing missing from her days, and she could live every day of her life on this shore and feel it has been a life well-lived. Those from outside the household know very little about her, seeing only a quiet, dutiful servant if they see her at all, and that is as she likes it.  She prefers to not draw attention to herself in the first place, all the better to avoid wagging tongues and wandering hands. She watches and listens more than she ever speaks, and is far happier at her work than she would be at play. A perfect servant, by all accounts, so long as the gods see fit to maintain her happiness.
Being freed from servitude has never occurred to Beyla, in all the years since she was taken from the convent. What could be better than the live she already has?
She is almost always quiet, but for the little habit she has of humming as she goes about her work.
Her expressions are as guarded as her tongue, thus making both her laughter and her fury well-earned when at last she deigns to show them. That being said, she canât help sometimes cracking a smile when the moment is truly deserving.
Beyla is a solitary little creature, happiest alone with her hands busy. Getting in the way of that work is a quick way to earn the coldest of cold shoulders.
The smell of honey and woodsmoke follows her on her clothes and on her skin, a testament of how often she works by the hives.
Eavesdropping is the unspoken skill of a servant, and Beyla is always listening for anything that could spell a change in her masterâs fortunes, be they good or bad.