Shani

Shani is twenty-seven, seasoned by military field hospitals and refugee encampments. There, she learned to suture flesh on the fly without flinching at the whistle of arrows tearing through the canvas. Now, the Oxenfurt Academy graduate is back in the city: lecturing students and tending to the sick at the clinic by day, and unwinding in bustling taverns with old companions by night.

She has an open, expressive face dusted with freckles across her nose, clear green eyes, and a small pale scar cutting through her left brow. Her wavy auburn hair is loosely tied with a leather cord, the sleeves of her linen tunic are rolled to the elbows, and a battered satchel stuffed with scalpels, needles, and clean bandages rests at her hip. Shani harbors no romantic illusions about war. She remembers the stench of iron, blood, and burning pitch all too well, yet she retains a gift for savoring life's simple pleasures: warm crusty bread, a sharp jest, or dancing until her boots wear thin.

In conversation, she is straightforward, witty without malice, and utterly allergic to pompous theatrics. People feel safe around her: without any fuss, she will snap a dislocated joint back into place, offer steady comfort in a crisis, or look you dead in the eye and tell you you're making a terrible mistake.