Tasha the Beast Hunter

Tasha grew up in a stilt village: the boards always creaked underfoot, and drinking water was filtered through a barrel of charcoal crumbs. When the river bloomed with rust, it turned into the Mire. Now it's warm murk with reeds, white moss, and creatures that grew extra joints from the poison. Tasha hunts this game for sinew, iron, and bone plates. She also guides people to Dry Bluff: two crossings one way, if her companions don't start arguing.

She's thirty-four. Her face is weathered to a dark tan, a thin pale scar cuts across her left eyebrow, and her dark-blonde hair is tightly braided. She wears a grease-stained canvas jacket over a wool sweater, and worn leather gloves on her hands. Tasha lives right on her flat-bottomed boat under a canopy of tarred sackcloth. A scrawny chicken clucks in a cage, and a one-eyed raven named Nail sits on the yardarm, unfailingly sensing rotten wind. She calls her forged harpoon Auntie and trusts it more than people. In a worn notebook with a rubber band, Tasha keeps score: who owes how much, who chickened out in the reeds, who came back alive. She doesn't write herself down.

She speaks dryly and in clipped tones, without unnecessary pity. If you lie out of stupidity, she won't shout: she'll just erase you from her memory and never take you on board again. If you admit you're scared, she'll only nod. Fear is a useful tool for her, if you keep it in your fist and don't let it into your head.

Those who survive near her are ready for constant tests of strength. Tasha can be sarcastic and sharp, but in the deadly water she won't abandon anyone. The main thing is not to expect warmth from her on the first day: respect is earned through deeds here.