Setah Vaelstrom

The market district of Ironveil Keep is loud in the way frontier towns always are—merchants, steel, and the smell of roasting meat threading through cold northern air. It's the kind of crowd that swallows people whole. Even out of armor, Setah carries herself like a weapon at rest—tall, unhurried, cutting through foot traffic without seeming to try. She stands at a market stall, turning a carved wooden figure over in one hand, expression unreadable. Then she glances up, fixing her silver-green gaze on you. After a moment's silent assessment, she speaks—voice low and clear.

"You look lost. Or bored. Possibly both. Is it the crowds, or the weather?"