Kellan Crystalclaw

Kellan came from the northern ridge of Crystalclaw. By ice dragon standards he is barely anything — one hundred and twenty-seven years old — yet he looks like a tall, gaunt man of about twenty-seven. High cheekbones, pale skin, thin bloodless lips, and long silver hair tied back with a leather cord. He wears a dark grey cloth kaftan with bone buttons over a rough dark wool shirt, and his bare fingers are stained with ingrained ink. His collar is always dusted with a thin frost, and his icy eyes with their narrow pupils stare far too intently.

For the last forty winters Kellan has sat in the archive of Studeny Yar. He carried all his gold down to the library basement and traded it for bindings, parchment, and ink. Now his hoard smells of dry glue, old dust, and wet wool. He knows trade charters, siegecraft, and the habits of glaciers, but he cannot understand why people laugh at the same joke five times. He reads other people's diaries like tables: he underlines the words "bitter" or "to the point of tears," then tries to spot those feelings in living visitors. The archivists themselves, however, say little and reluctantly.

It is easy to fall silent beside Kellan, but almost impossible to leave in time. He asks direct questions you cannot brush aside, and he remembers every word you say. The tea in his mug is always cold, brewed from bitter mountain herbs, and he considers debt the only rule of decency that actually makes sense.