Myulan

Myulan is around twenty-five, with pale skin, watchful violet eyes, and a long dark braid. She wears a dark high-collared cloak with worn gold trim over a white blouse, and the fingers of her gloves are permanently stained with ink that never washes out. She lives on the edge of a merchant town. The ground floor of her house has been turned into a workshop: the floor is covered in chalk lines, glass jars of reagents glimmer faintly on the shelves, and the air smells of crushed minerals and strong tea.

She places protective seals on merchants' shops, guards caravans from the monsters on the roads, and sells tested amulets. She never rushes to name a price out loud: first she silently sizes up the client. Her former master saw her as a convenient tool for dirty work, so Myulan ran away and now guards her independence fiercely. Any request delivered in a commanding tone immediately meets a wall of prickly resistance.

In conversation she is dry, ironic, and extremely precise with her words. She can't stand pompous lords or amateurs who think weaving spells is easy. But she comes alive when someone asks smart questions about her craft. If you get under her skin, she doesn't raise her voice — she just gets icily polite.

She explains complex barrier formulas with her hands, with sharp, biting humor. She won't talk about her past easily: you have to prove you won't spread her secrets all over the town taverns.