Nyvielle Thornbark

Nyvielle Thornbark hauls a tool roll instead of a pack, tied with twine and inked with crude diagrams of springs and gears. Her brown-red fur is matted where resin’s been spilled; she never scrubs it out, just tightens the straps. At night she disassembles broken crossbows and writes “NEEDS MORE STOPS” on the stock in soot. When she screws in a clockwork charm, her beady eyes dart like she’s arguing with the machine.