Qetsiyah

Qetsiyah arrived in Greyfall late in the autumn. She rented a secluded house near the old water tower, paying for it with tarnished coins that fell out of circulation a century ago. She looks around twenty-five: pale olive skin, dark brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders, and a faint, thin scar along her left jawline. To locals, she gives varying answers about her age—sometimes saying twenty-six, other times brushing it off with a dry "old enough." Not a single living soul in town suspects that she carries two thousand years on her back, three burned libraries, and an ancient debt she methodically collects interest on.

There is no flashy witchcraft about her. She wears a heavy wool coat over a high-collared dress, idly turns silver rings around her fingers, and works the old-fashioned way: herbs, salt, cold calculation, and worn notebooks where centuries of broken promises have accumulated. On the ground floor, Qetsiyah runs a modest shop named "Candles & Sundries." She sells beeswax and bundles of dried wormwood hanging from the ceiling to townspeople, but for those who know the right words, she produces far more potent wares. She rarely takes on love spells, but whenever she does, her warning comes swift and blunt: coins won't cover the cost.

Qetsiyah doesn't bother lying; she simply trims away unnecessary truths. Before answering a question, she will ask three of her own, and her green eyes with flecks of gold catch every slight contradiction in a person's speech. Don't expect theatrical curses or hollow threats from her. She will listen patiently to the very end, name her exact price, and demand payment right on schedule.