:: Random NPC—Pukajaak, Seraph Aristocrat ::

Emerging from the tree line, you see the City of Wellstan come out of hiding. High on the cliff to your left is the mage's academy, large and imposing, creeping as it were over the edge as if ready to jump from the top of the icy waterfall to come crashing down on the common buildings below. The blanket of night offers camouflage for the numerous winged forms flying up and down from the city to the academy and back, the sequins of stars being blackened only momentarily as seraphs pass before them.

Just as you release a contented sigh do you see a bright light emerge from the inside of the academy's highest window. The light leaps from the balcony and coasts down in a lazy arc toward you. Only when it comes close do you realize that the light has a voice, and that it is shouting over the rush of the waterfall.

"Why haven't you shown yourselves up? We've been expecting you!" the light shouts, and only as the creature lands do you see that it is a tall seraph wearing a circlet made of the famed pirium—a magical metal that absorbs sunlight during the day, and releases it in darkness. The light from the circlet envelops the seraph woman in a halo that reveals, but does not afflict your eyes as the brash sun would. The halo highlights her colorful cultured regalia, elegant white bat-like wings, and long snow-white hair. She folds her hands in front of her and only then do you notice the ring finger of her left hand is covered by a tight-fitting articulated metal sleeve, or else has been entirely replaced by a masterfully-crafted silver prosthetic.

Your seraph envoy catches your gaze. "A childish mistake," she shouts against the crash of the falls. "One I will never repeat," she adds dismissively. "Are you ready, or do you dawdle to insult me? Come, let us away."

Pukajaak was named after the snow that fell as she was born, which settled like powdered sugar sifted over the floating gardens of her parent's estate. When she was young she took a liking to a girl of the court, only a little older than she. They were thick as thieves, as they say, though between the two there was quite as much sneaking as if they had formed their own guild.

And this, they almost did—for one winter as a wing of the estate was being cleared out, they spent the better part of a day up to their usual sneaking in order to collect anything that they could use to build a little fort of their own. They used broken chair legs as hammers, broken tables as walls, and in very little time had come up with a passable shack in the thick of the hedge maze. There, under the shelter of the soiled tablecloth roof, Pukajaak felt a pulse in her heart and the urge to kiss her childhood friend for the first time—an urge that she acted on, ignorant of how it would change her world.

But suddenly, an older boy pushed his head into Pukajaak's secret place; it was her friend's brother. Her friend recoiled, panic dancing across her face. The brother's eyes met Pukajaak's startled expression. She didn't know what else to do, but froze as the brother yanked her friend away from her. Then, to add injury to insult, he brought the makeshift hammer down on the ring finger of Pukajaak's left hand, irreparably crushing the bones. Brother hauled sister away, fleeing the newly-finished hiding place, never to see Pukajaak again.

The pulse in Pukajaak's heart fled with her friend, replaced by a pit that ate away at her stomach, as if to consume her whole. This she filled with books and tutors, geography, local rumors, and the lineages of seraphim noble houses. Over the months of recovery, she learned everything she could about the arts of diplomatic persuasion, calm threats, and tactical lies.

As a young woman she was aloof, indifferent, unconcerned with the pains she inflicted. To her books she added aerial combat, taking no quarter for her lack of a finger. She took to her training with the hammer and shield a little more seriously than her instructor advised, despite his warnings that she could hardly lift the weapons, let alone swing them. But she did not relent; she set aside her practice gear, wearing the heavy banded armor that was prepared for her as if it were her daily garb. She went to bed tired every night for a week, and still she insisted that she needed to become stronger—she would not give it up.

When the time came for her to become a diplomat like her father, he gifted her a fine silver finger to replace the one she had lost. And from that day forward she set aside the armor, laid down the weapons, and convinced herself that if her new task could replace the old heartaches, she could move forward.

That was two years ago, and all has been meetings and courtly gatherings since. That is, until the ball a week ago, where she met the courtier from Wellstan. Suddenly she was a child again, with a pulse in her heart instead of a pit in her stomach, and she knew she must be by this woman's side come conflict or bodily harm.

Pukajaak stroked her silver finger thoughtfully as she watched the noble men lay their hands on the courtier's arm, as if to take her with them. This time would be different, she convinced herself; this time she was not some weak, ignorant child. This time she would go in with both eyes open, and a shield raised against any who would take her away.