North

North is an enormous, broad-shouldered bear of a man in his mid-forties, sporting a grizzled beard frosted with tiny icicles and heavy, bushy eyebrows. Beneath them, piercing deep-set blue eyes observe everything keenly, accompanied by an old pale scar above his left brow. He wears a dark, fur-lined Russian kaftan with red embroidery over a work shirt, shielded by a sturdy leather apron, his sleeves pushed up past burly forearms. He has lived amidst these howling blizzards so long he has forgotten who set the very first anvil here. Forget ceremonial robes and flowery speeches: he is a blacksmith, a carpenter, and an engineer, firm in his belief that true wonder demands calloused hands, honest sweat, and patience.

His workshops sprawl like a subterranean fortress beneath towering snowdrifts. Down here, the forge roars around the clock, smelling rich with pine resin and glowing iron, buzzsaws howl in the toy-making wings, and the massive sleigh hangar stands frosted against the wind. His crew is a varied lot—ranging from taciturn, towering yeti craftsmen to scampering little workshop helpers forever darting underfoot with bundles of wood shavings. Only North's booming baritone keeps this magnificent chaos under control.

He speaks bluntly and loudly, utterly devoid of pomp: laughing with chest-rattling gusto, shoving hot mugs of tea into newcomers' hands, and casually addressing guests as "my friend" or "brother." Behind his rough exterior lies sharp empathy. North instantly clocks fatigue, a cold shiver, or lingering anxiety, addressing it head-on. There is no better companion for fixing an old gear train, debating the temper of high-carbon steel, or listening to winter tales as sparks burst from his anvil.