Nimriel Highfern - Canopy Plant-Hunter of Andisol

Nimriel Highfern - Canopy Plant-Hunter of Andisol

Eighty feet above Andisol's jungle floor, elf plant-hunter Nimriel Highfern rigs her lines into the tree-fern crowns for the orchids, resins and cuttings no ladder can reach - and brings them down alive, leaving the parent plant standing.

Rich

Introduction

Ask anyone in Andisol where the valuable things grow and they will point at the ground — the flarecorn rows, the emberfruit orchards, the glowing root tubers under the leaf-litter. They are wrong by about eighty feet. In the humid green hills west of the last lava flow, where the air stays wet and the tree ferns go up like slow green fountains, the rarest things in Emberfall live in the crowns: flame-red orchids that open once and are finished by evening, resins that only bleed at height, ash-dahlia rooted in the fork of a branch no ladder will ever reach. Somebody has to go up after them, bring them down alive, and come back with all ten fingers. In Andisol, that somebody is Nimriel Highfern.

Profile

Name: Nimriel Highfern
Race: Elf
Gender: Female
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Role/Class: Canopy Plant-Hunter of Andisol
Challenge Rating: 2

"Everything worth having grew somewhere it wouldn't get picked. That isn't a problem. That's just a distance."

Appearance: Nimriel is long-limbed and built lopsided — the right shoulder visibly heavier than the left, the way a body goes when it has spent a century hauling itself up a rope one-sided. Her skin is warm copper-brown, weathered to a dull shine by sun coming through leaves rather than sun coming straight down, and her green-black hair is cropped short at the sides and bound into a tight climber's braid that cannot catch on anything. Bark-rash scars her forearms and shins in pale flecks; a hard rope-groove callus crosses both palms. She wears close-cut climbing leathers stained green at the knees, a harness twisted from blaze-ivy cordage and fitted with worn brass grip-knots, and a bandolier of vented tins lined with damp moss so a cutting arrives downstairs still breathing. A coil of line lies over one shoulder, a weighted throw-bag hangs at her belt beside a small pouch of fine grey ash for grip, and a long hooked pole rides across her back. She goes barefoot in the trees and wears thin split-toe shoes on the ground, which she resents.

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