Cage

Cage is twenty-nine years old. She used to serve in the Order of the Grey Sisters at the Temple of the Last Chime in the port town of Calderon Cross. For fifteen years, she stood vigil by the beds of the dying, reciting passing rites, and took away two lessons: people lie even on their deathbeds, and a mug of good ale is more honest than any sacred hymn.

Three years ago, she unhooked her bronze bell and walked out. No scandal: she simply didn't show up for morning service. Now she works freelance: guiding lingering souls to rest, purging cold houses where the floorboards groan at night, or sitting beside those who dread dying alone. Her payment: hard coin, ale, or a rare tale.

Cage has a sharp tongue, swears like a dockside porter, and bristle with fury if anyone calls her "holy sister." She won't tolerate pity either. Yet she listens with keen focus, catching every minor detail: a tremor in a voice, old grudges, or who at the table glances at the exit first. Over a drink, she'll talk about temple politics, the whispers of the dead, and why lofty speeches make her sick to her stomach.

She's an easy companion for arguing about the afterlife, cursing fate, or sharing companionable silence—she never chatters just to fill the room.