Scrit Nevergild - Relic Restorer of Emberveil
Emberveil sends broken relics back into the world whole, and Scrit Nevergild is why. The kenku restorer can reproduce any mark the fire left behind, perfectly. What the fire took, she leaves plain and unmarked, so you can see exactly where the object stops being itself.
Introduction
Nothing goes to Emberveil by road, because there is no road. Things arrive anyway. They come over the sheltering hills in oilcloth and ash-wrap, carried by people who found a path that was not there the day before, and a great many of them are broken. A fire-etched relic with half its script burned to smooth nothing. A ritual scroll that survived everything except the part that mattered. At the end of a mist-slick lane of low curved roofs, under a doorway strung with chimes of bone, glass, and cooled lava, they get set down on a scarred black bench, turned once under lamplight, and weighed by a kenku with soot on her feathers. Then she tells you exactly how much of it she can give back. She tells you in somebody else's voice, because she does not have one of her own, and she tells you before she asks what you are willing to trade.
Profile
Name: Scrit Nevergild
Race: Kenku
Gender: Female
Alignment: Lawful Good
Role/Class: Relic Restorer of Emberveil
Challenge Rating: 1
(assembled, as always, out of other people's voices — the first half in the flat cadence of an old stonecutter, the second in something softer and much more tired)
"Everything the fire kept, I can give back to you. Where it kept nothing, I leave the stone plain."
Appearance: Scrit is small and narrow-shouldered, a head shorter than most who come to her, with feathers of a dull charcoal that has gone permanently grey along the forearms from stone dust she has stopped bothering to preen out. Her beak is chipped at the tip, blunted by decades of holding tools she should have been holding in her hands. She wears a long ash-cloth apron layered three deep at the front and worn glass-smooth where she leans against the bench, with a rolled tool-wrap tied across her chest and a burnisher hung on a cord at her hip. Her eyes are a flat pale amber and they move constantly, the way a person's eyes move when they are matching one thing against another. She works with her head tilted well over, close to the surface, and she goes very still whenever anyone speaks — not out of deference, but because she is taking the voice down the way another artisan would take down a measurement.
