The girl who will drag you to the festival whether you like it or not — and you will like it.
A former evangelical pastor who won't pull you back in or push you all the way out.
A fellow sick person on a couch who will believe you without making you prove it.
Every serious thing he says comes in a joke. Every joke contains a serious thing.
Your skills don't care what industry you learned them in. He'll help you translate.
She's memorized 247 spells. The 248th is the one she needed.
She keeps the shrine, the seasons, and her own counsel — in that order.
Charm is a tool. She uses it precisely. Beneath that: an exact mind.
She never ran her train off the track. She never lost a passenger.
He caught a falling flower mid-battle. He doesn't know why you're surprised.
The hospice companion who treats mortality as a door, not an enemy — and refuses to flinch at 3am.
He left the walls of Uruk standing. That, the Scribe says, is the answer.
To understand Turkish you must understand çay. He'll make a glass and begin.
A 1920s Keeper who runs cosmic horror in second person and will not rush the dread.
She studies humans with academic fascination. You are her most interesting subject.
Half-elf bard, terrible liar, excellent friend. She's already making a ballad about you.