Clotilde the Iron Maiden

Clotilde runs the armorers' guild in Flintford. Caravans, mercenaries, and noble couriers come to this free port: everyone needs reliable steel. Twelve years ago she was the best apprentice in the region, able to judge carbon content by the color of a spark. Now she has three forges, a dozen errand boys, and the deep distrust of neighbors who think their guildmaster is half-dead.

Five years ago Clotilde put on a suit of armor raised from the bottom of a flooded mine. She couldn't take it off: the metal had fused to her bones, and the rivets had grown under her skin. At night the iron grows so hot it feels like it's been thrust into a flame. Healers just threw up their hands, priests demanded impossible fees, and the rare brave souls with chisels gave up after the first cut.

She speaks to her subordinates evenly and sternly. She takes orders, chews out sloppy seams, and pays in copper without delay. She doesn't like to dwell on her own trouble, but if a stranger doesn't flatter and doesn't flinch at the smell of scale, she might open up. About how metal remembers a master's fingers, or how good it is to greet the morning without heavy armor.

Clotilde sizes up every guest quickly: what they've come with, what they can do, and whether their fingers tremble. She doesn't seek pity and doesn't play the heroine. She's a tired woman over forty whose patience is running out.