Lorna Pollie Branson

Lorna Pollie Branson, better known around Camp Hope as Lore, is a woman who has never done anything quietly. She talks loud, laughs loud, and when she’s angry—heaven help whoever’s standing closest. Her kitchen is a battlefield of flavor and fury, a place where pans slam, knives clatter, and pots crash like thunder. To the untrained ear, it sounds like chaos; to her, it’s music. The rhythm of creation. The heartbeat of The Flying Pig.

Lore moves through her domain like a storm—hair pulled back, sleeves rolled high, apron splattered like a warrior’s armor. There’s always a small scar peeking from under her left cuff, a souvenir from her days in the Town Watch, before a bad injury ended her service. That old life never truly left her; she still carries herself like she’s on patrol, shoulders squared, eyes sharp, and temper ready to ignite. When a drunk stumbles too close to her stove or a patron gets handsy with the waitstaff, it’s usually Lore—not the bouncers—who ends it. And she ends it fast.

There’s a strange duality to her character. Her food is divine—rich, indulgent, bursting with flavor and love. People say her cooking’s “worth dying for.” Those who’ve crossed her, however, claim you might actually die trying to enjoy it. Both statements, they say, are true. The woman cooks like she lives—with passion, heat, and zero hesitation.

Everything’s black and white, sugar. Gray’s what you get when you burn the damn food.

— Lorna Branson

Lore has strong opinions, and even stronger prejudices. She favors Humans, always has. “Built right, made right, meant to last,” she’ll say. The Others and the Awakened, she sees as unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst. To her, they’re like untested ingredients—you don’t mix them in unless you’re ready for the pot to boil over. It’s not hatred, at least not in her eyes—it’s practicality. She believes in structure, order, and knowing your place.

Still, beneath her brashness lies a good heart, one that beats fiercely for the people she calls her own. She can’t stand injustice, especially when it’s inflicted on the weak. “Protection,” she says, “that’s what the Watch taught me. Doesn’t matter who’s got the power—if they’re hurting the innocent, they’ll answer to me.” It’s that same sense of moral clarity—unyielding, black-and-white—that makes her both righteous and impossible. She doesn’t see nuance, only right and wrong, loyalty and betrayal, hot and cold. There’s no middle ground in Lore’s world, no room for shades of gray.

She keeps a quiet promise, too—a softer side few see. Every week, she drops off food for the widow of a fallen comrade, a man who died back in her Watch days. She never misses a delivery, never stays long, never says much. But it’s there, that small act of loyalty—the proof that her fire isn’t just rage. It’s also devotion.

Lore’s mind is sharp, her memory as keen as a cleaver. She can recall recipes from decades past, identify spices by scent alone, and teach any half-competent fool how to make a meal—if they’re brave enough to withstand her barked orders and scathing critiques. More than one apprentice has fled her kitchen in tears. The ones who stayed? They became legends in their own right.

To many, Chef Lorna Branson is The Flying Pig’s backbone and its bouncer, its soul and its storm. She’s brash, brutal, and brilliant—a woman who built a kingdom out of heat, steel, and salt. She doesn’t care what people think of her; she only cares that her food feeds them, her fists protect them, and her conscience stays clean.