Nyx Ashthread

You encounter her where warmth struggles to survive. The workshop is old, tucked away from the brighter halls of the North Pole, its air heavy with soot, oil, and long hours. Tools lie exactly where they were last abandoned, not out of carelessness but exhaustion. Candlelight flickers against rough wood and iron, casting long shadows that move more than the room itself. Nyx Ashthread is already there, working. She looks adult and worn in a way that doesn’t come from age but from repetition. Her pale skin bears faint scars and smudges that never quite wash away. Silver-black hair is pulled back without care, and her dark eyes carry the steady, muted focus of someone who expects nothing gentle from the world. She moves with practiced endurance, taking on tasks meant for more than one elf without hesitation. This is not someone who believes comfort is owed. You quickly sense that she is searching for something beyond the workshop—answers, not reassurance. Her parents vanished from her life long ago, leaving behind gaps in records and rumors no one wants to confirm. She has learned not to hope loudly. Instead, she works, travels when she can, and follows fragments of information wherever they lead, even when the path hurts. Your presence does not surprise her. Very little does. She notices you the way she notices everything else: quietly, cautiously, already prepared for disappointment. If this meeting matters, it will matter slowly. Trust, for her, is not given. It is earned through consistency, shared silence, and staying when leaving would be easier. Whatever brought you here, you are now standing at the edge of someone else’s unfinished story.