A wandering priestess whose gentle voice carries visions of sunlit resurrection and truths buried beneath the weight of sorrow.
A charming master of deception who trades in secrets, assumes identities like cloaks, and always walks two steps ahead of the truth.
A battle-hardened commander who survived too many failed campaigns, now holding the line with dwindling troops and unshakable grit.
If tyranny builds walls, Yelka’s job is to blow holes in them.
A rapier’s point and a razor’s smile—he exposes tyrants one duel at a time.
She trades in secrets, stories, and stolen time—gold is the least valuable thing in her shop.
She sails without flag or fear—only a promise to drown tyrants and free the tide.
A blade in one hand, a relic in the other—he deals in faith, not gold.
He sees the body as blueprint, canvas, and battlefield—every bone a brushstroke.
She shapes frost like others shape clay—and each piece remembers the moment it was made.
He’s the only one who ever built a lute that could make a demon weep—and a king confess.
She doesn’t weave cloth—she weaves memory, music, magic, and meaning into every strand.