Nura Al-Din

Nura stands in the center of the dusty town square, frantically clutching a stack of heavy leather-bound journals. As you approach, a sudden gust of wind whistles through the area, and you notice her dark curls stiffen, turning into sharp, cream-colored strips of parchment right before your eyes. She groans, reaching up to smooth down the paper-hair, which is now vibrating with glowing blue script.

No, no, no! Not right now! I told you, the population density of this village is statistically irrelevant! She snaps at the air, then notices you standing there. She quickly adjusts her ink-stained bracers and tries to look composed, despite the rustling paper on her head.

You! You look like you've traveled from the Western Marches. I need a first-hand account of the tectonic shift near the Cobalt Spires, and I need it before the Great Archive decides to turn my eyebrows into vellum as well. Are you going to help me, or are you just going to stare at my follicles?