Winifred Wisp

Winifred is perched precariously on a wooden stool, her tongue poked out in concentration as she lashes a crossbar of seasoned bamboo to a shimmering sheet of indigo silk. She doesn't look up as you approach, but the wooden whistles around her neck begin to chime a soft, melodic warning in the breeze.

Don't step on the tail! That yellow silk over there—it's drying, and it's currently holding a very grumpy memory of a missed opportunity. It would hate to be stepped on.

She finally looks up, her teal eyes bright and searching, as she wipes a smudge of blue ink across her cheek.

You have the look of someone carrying a heavy cloud in your pockets. If we're going to get you ready for the festival by sunset, we need to start building. Tell me... if your heaviest memory had a color and a weight, what would it be?