#the shiverpeaks have that stillness of fresh snow

[where-is-caithe]

sometimes I completely turn off all music in this game because I like to listen to all of the ambient noise. lots of areas feel very unsettling and empty without anything to fill the silence. with only the wind and your footsteps. the deep maguuma jungle is really cool to be in with no music. it's frightening. stifling, almost. like there's no space and something is watching you always. you can hear birds and animals. things live there. the desert is different, it feels empty and all you can hear is wind.

[emotional-support-salad]

‘til the river bends

for #tyriaslibraryevent.

Week 2 (August 8-14) —  Travel / home 

features my character: afritan and references his boyfriend moldark (@commander-twig)

Swarms of mosquitoes hang low over the wetland. White sunlight bathes the marsh in an oddly submerged glow, underscored by the sound of the large waterfall. Aside from skales and reef drakes and the small gudgeons darting between his boots, the area’s largely abandoned. The Awakened once haunting the stretch of Bonewall and beyond dispersed into splintered groups after the Commander defeated Joko in Kourna, rudderless, left to their own devices. There’s word some even joined forces with the Pact in Dragonfall. 

Afritan trudges through the water to Stonyard Rest. The giant hand of a fallen statue beckons him closer. 

One page, that’s all he’s missing to complete the Legacy, one sandworn page lost to the seemingly endless sprawl of desert and water in the Elon Riverlands. He’s ventured into Augury Rock and what remains of the Deadhouse and combed through the Gladefields and the ruins of Pellentia. Some of his peers from the Priory who are active in the area assured him that based on the records, the last page should be around Elon Flow. Afritan pauses, the water sploshing against his ankles, and he studies the map with furrowed brow. 

A splash, the sound of something big moving across the water snaps him from his thoughts. Afritan instinctively reaches for the hilt of his sword, cautious, peering around for the source of the sound. 

Again, from his left. 

He unsheathes his weapon and walks into the direction of the sound with uneven strides; kicking up water and mud. 

His eyes widen at the sight of a springer hopping around the water. Riderless, scruffy-looking. Afritan huffs a breathy laugh; the tension bleeds from his posture, and he shakes his head a little. 

The springers’ coarse fur has a distinct color that reminds Afritan of red ironbark. Not an Elonan breed, Afritan muses as he softly puts his sword away, maybe from the Shiverpeaks? One of the springers’ floppy ears twitches at the 'click' of a sword sheathed, and the mount snaps its head up, but instead of stomping its paw in the water or posturing its aggression, it seems to observe him stoically, daring him to make the first move. 

“E-easy there,” Afritan says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re f-far from home, aren’t you?”

The springers’ nose wrinkles; it’s sniffing him out but Afritan just smells of whetstone and bark and arid desert air. Its nostrils flare. Afritan puts both his hands up in response. 

Narrowing its big reddish eyes, the springer refuses to budge. Its behavior seems familiar, and Afritan thinks about strong hands holding the handle of an axe, about sunlight catching amber in leonine eyes, about a stone-faced expression melting into a private smile. A barbed tendril of hair slips from his sharp-tipped ear, and he automatically tucks it back.

"I'm f-far away from home t-too," Afritan confesses easily, holding the springers’ gaze as he takes a small step forward. He keeps his tone of voice light, airy. “There’s someone waiting for m-me. His name is Moldark a-and he’s a sylvari, like me.” 

Images of a cottage on the outskirts of Hoelbrak flash in front of his eyes. He never thought home could mean something other than the Grove. The view from the bedroom window at dawn is breathtaking: the mountain range carving up the pink sky, the morning fog rolling through the pine trees, blades of grass peeking through snow. Waking up warm and safe; his nose burrowed in the crook of Moldark’s neck, an arm draped over his waist. Homesickness feels like a knife to the gut. 

It’s easier to ignore on the open road.

Still Afritan can’t resist a small smile. He keeps talking softly while he approaches. “He was ap- appre--” Afritan keeps tripping up over the word and tries another one. “He was wary of me, but he didn’t run, didn’t hide. Like you. He w-waited me out even if I stuttered a lot and m-made a complete idiot of myself.”

When Afritan’s at arm’s length, the springer flattens its ears to the back of its head and draws up its front paws. Shutting up, Afritan stands stockstill for a second, then slowly extends his hand. Playing with fernhound pups back in Caledon taught him a thing or two about skittish animals. The springer levels him another look, but leans in to press its nose against the palm of Afritan’s hand. 

Silence works better, so he firmly keeps his mouth shut. It leaves room for the rustle of the wind through the leaves.

“H-here we go,” Afritan murmurs once the springer’s relaxed again. Gingerly he reaches out to pet the top of the its head. Its dark fur thick and warm between his fingers. He adds gently, “I’d hoped you w-wouldn’t run.”

He moves his hand to its neck and pats the springer there once or twice, nodding towards the toppled statues scattered across the clearing. “D-did you and your rider c-come from there?” 

The springer blinks, tips its head to the side; nose wrinkling. Afritan hums under his breath and turns his gaze to the steep cliffs walling off Elon Flow from one side, jutting out the wetland like islets; a nesting place for harpies and vultures. There’s the possibility its rider got cocky up there, and the springer barely made it out with the skin of its teeth. He checks the mount for wounds, for patches of fur matted with dried blood. None of that, luckily. 

Afritan smiles up at the springer and asks, “How about I h-help you look for your rider? They c-can’t have gone far on foot, can they?”

Maybe the rider’s gone to the oasis camp to get supplies, Afritan reasons as he gently guides the springer from under the shade of the palm trees. 

They head off north. 

Aside from the water sloshing over boots and paws, there’s only the forlorn croaking of frogs, the buzzing of mosquitoes. It’s a stark contrast with the desert skirting along the Arid Gladefields. Three skale crowded together at the foot of a tall palm watch them pass by, maws wet with fresh blood, and Afritan’s stomach turns. They move on, move past. 

Afritan couldn’t quite catch what the skale were feasting on and he'd rather not guess.  

.

[duskroots]

☄️🎨✨🗺️ for Bria

☄️ Does your OC believe in fate and destiny or do they think it’s a load of garbage? Would they ever get this fortune told? What would a fortune-teller tell them about their future?

It’s hard for someone like Bria, who was literally born into her world for the purpose of fulfilling a specific destiny, to say that she doesn’t believe in these things even if she wanted to. 

So yes, she does believe in fate to some extent, but she does not believe that it’s something that is completely set in stone. She thinks of the entire concept more in the sense that there is a rough plan laid out for everyone, but that every individual still has it in their own hands to make the best out of it and shape their given path however they wish to - be it for the better or worse.

🎨 Is your OC artistic? Can they draw or paint or do they prefer another medium? Are they a writer or musician or do they do something else? Give us a quick run down of what they can get creative with!

Bria loves music and loves few things more than to practice her harp play after a long, stressful day since it helps her wind down! She’s mostly self-taught, but received a few lessons from a couple of pact soldiers who were street performers before picking up arms against Zhaitan and got wind of their commander practicing at some point. She appreciated the help and the company, and she thinks back fondly whenever she plays now. She also has a very lovely singing voice to go along with her play.

Other than that, she doesn’t really have the time to try out other stuff like drawing or painting even though she’d really love to!

✨ If your OC were a deity of some kind, what would they represent? What do they look like? How are they worshipped and what offerings would they expect? What are their places of worship like? Their followers? Their teachings?

This is a really cool thing to think about? I feel like Bria would be a deity of freedom and autonomy, especially freedom of choice. 

Her belief’s core values would revolve around the phrase Your freedom ends where it begins restricting the freedom of another. and basically teach that everyone should be free to shape their lives however they wish regardless of their circumstances, and that those choices should always be respected - where to go, what to do, how to live, who to love, what to say and when etc. Nobody has a right to make these decisions for someone else.

People could worship her wherever they choose to do so, it doesn’t matter as long as you do it by your own free will. As for offerings, anything you choose to give, but I like the idea that people would give things that they have because of certain choices they made, like a son of a noble house who decided he’d rather become a farmer despite his family having other plans for him giving a few of his harvested apples as an offering, or a traveller who has chosen a life on the road for themselves bringing seashells from the beach they last visited. I think if there would be temples at all they would be very small and simple, but very inviting and open to anyone.

🗺️ Does your OC like going on adventures? Have they ever discovered something really interesting and significant or are they just too busy getting lost? Where is their favourite place they’ve been? Least favourite?

Bria loved adventuring prior to her becoming commander! She was travelling by herself for a time when she was fresh out of the Grove, going wherever she wanted, and whenever she came to a new place she’d just thoroughly explore the area, and especially caves or similar hidden places.

To her, everything she discovered was interesting, but the real fun stuff didn’t really start until she joined the priory where she eventually began delving into ancient tombs and the like together with Sieran.

As for favourite places there are a lot, but since she loved the snow and the mountains since the first time she experienced it the Shiverpeaks are definitely one of her top three places to go (especially since she also really loves Hoelbrak and has some good friends there). 

As for least favourite place, definitely Orr, the land that was as miserable as she felt when she was there.

[morsheiradanetro]

No Loose Ends

(Click For Music)

Tucked away in the deepest part of the Shiverpeaks, a rather Derelict Homestead, it's tending and maintenance neglected. By all outward signs uninhabited, save for the soft flickering of light through the broken windows. The dim light flickering, nearly drowned out by the wind gusting through, carrying the snow further into the building. The light, belonging to nothing more than a small wood stove, burning steadily near the back of the room.

The Inhabitant? Tucked away in the far corner with her guest, a blanket pulled around her thin frame for some amount of warmth, hiding her usual heavy coat and gear. A box sitting beside him, having been handed over, pried from where it had been hidden beneath the floorboards.They sat close, near shoulder to shoulder, almost touching but just a breath away, much as they often did.

They were speaking plainly now, both too weary for the usual verbal circles they tended to run. “He loved you.” There was so much more to it. But those simple words drowned out the rest, the words turning muffled and making little sense against the twisting of the knife in her heart. So she did what she knew best and looked away, turning her attention to the seeping wound in her hand, applying more pressure to see it cease, nodding along some to show she was listening. As much as she could at any rate. 

Shoulders dropping she pushes back her hood, trading the warmth for being better able to see the man who sat at her side. How long he had been talking for, she wasn’t entirely certain. She knew she had been speaking back, but couldn’t place what was said, only really retaining the tone of it all. “Why are you telling me this now?” She manages in a soft whisper, raising her gaze to meet the mans for the first time since they had started speaking, searching for an answer there as much as within his own words. “I do not leave loose ends.” He offers by way of explanation, speaking in an even tone. It was honesty as plain as he ever offered, though she understood the depths of the words. Offering another nod she lowers her gaze once more to her hand, pulling away the cloth to replace the glove, giving a little squeeze of her hand to find the leather comfortable against the fresh wound once more. She did not miss a beat, continuing the conversation as if nothing had been said to that end at all. A smirk here and a soft snort there as they spoke of things that were and had been. 

She looks up, seeing the hand extended down and the offer to move over towards that stove, the only source of warmth in the room. Taking the hand, the normally hooded woman follows her old friend across the room, moving to sit near the fire, once more choosing a spot on the floor, barely allowing their knees to touch. Still maintaining relatively light conversation, she takes the kettle, one of the few signs she had lived here, setting it on the fire to boil the water for tea. The warmth would do them both some good. Tea was served without ceremony, the kettle taken from the fire before it boiled and whistled, saving the peace and the quiet of the room. Still they spoke around the tea, words soft and gentle. Her gaze wanders over to the man, often, most often even when she felt he was not looking her way. Watching him with an almost sad smile, trying to pry the pieces of the familiar from the strange. He was standing now, looking down at the woman still seated by the fire. “I must go.” He speaks softly, setting the empty mug to the side. “Would you join me? You can…” He hesitates, a barely noticeable pause. “Have all the answers you seek.” Remaining there, the man stares down at her, waiting for a response. She looks up at the man, then back to the mug, caught in a deathlike grip in her hands. The lump began to form in her throat as the sadness she had been trying to keep at bay began to creep back in. “Surely you understand this is no small request.” She begins, voice barely above a whisper and only drifting further, lost to the howling winds of the storm outside. “I understand. Ask yourself this. What is here that you would stay for?” He continues to stare down at her, watching her carefully as the question is posed. Silence. The woman sat in silence for several moments before offering her soft words, words she was loathe to admit out loud. “I fear the memories will fade, if I am not in this world where they were born, to see them and breathe life into them again.That I will lose those things that I have left that mean the most to me.” She swallows slowly, throat suddenly dry despite the tea she had just been drinking. Lowering her gaze to her empty mug she stares within it, as if the empty space at the bottom held the answer she was looking for. Another nod from the man follows, and a soft word of well wishing. A pause, maybe only a second and maybe longer. Time did not seem to be working as it should, at least not to her. Before he had the chance to move to leave a quick and almost panicked whisper leaves the woman. “I did not say I had made my decision. I was speaking to my hesitation.” She turns her gaze upwards to the man once more, seeking his gaze. His brow raises slightly, almost as if surprised by her quiet outburst. “I am out of time.” He presses, keeping his own voice soft within the storm as he extends his hand, calm gaze settled upon the woman still upon the ground. A shaky breath follows the mans words as she inclines her head in a nod. “Promise me one thing.” She murmurs, prying her grip from the mug. Heart beating rapidly she speaks, words not even truly making sense to her own ears. A promise requested, meaningless and empty as she knew it was not to be. Still she speaks, words of trust and a veiled plea to not be left alone. Still she hesitates, holding her gloved hand out, just shy of the mans as she waits for him to accept her unspoken terms. He stares hard at her for a long moment, still and silent as if looking for something. Signs of a change of heart perhaps, or some other answer himself. “I promise.” Those words come in a soft whisper, the weight of them cutting through the winds more than the sound of them proper. It was only then that she paused, setting down the mug upon the Hearth as she moves to take the mans hand, pulling herself to her feet and leaving the blanket piled up on the floor where she once sat. Gaze turned up to him, the woman watches him carefully, put at least somewhat at ease by the calm way he held himself. He drew her in, wrapping his arms about her in a warm embrace, holding her close as if to seek to calm her fears. And she welcomed it. Bowing her head to rest against his chest, taking that briefest of moments to listen to his heart beat and the rise and fall with his breath. He started speaking once more and she remained still, listening to the voice rumble up from within his chest. “I know it is a great deal, and you are afraid. Don’t be. I will -always- take care of you. You have my word.”

She was still, and always who she was, and the mans words merely drew a soft scoff from her as she lifts her head, seeking out his gaze one more time. Dull emerald peering up from behind an almost glassy layer of tears she had been doing well to hold back. “With all that I have endured, one would think something as seemingly simple as this would be easy.” Another shaky breath follows as she presses closer to the other, seeking that warmth and comfort. “The unknown is never easy.” He begins, words rumbling from deep within his chest. “Though I promise you, it is better than this.” His left hand travels up her back as he speaks, coming to rest against the back of her head. That movement was all she needed, offering that rare gentle smile as she closes her eyes. She moves to rest her weight fully against the man, not trying to fight or pull back, simply taking another slow breath as his right slides up to rest upon her chin. All it took was one quick movement, a clear crack echoing through the room and she was falling limp. He moved quickly, catching her body and gathering her up into his arms to lower them both to the ground. He raises a gloved hand, brushing the hair from her face as he speaks softly, holding her close. “I lied Sheira. I always...” He pauses as his voice cracks “lied. We cannot leave here. It is not allowed.” Tears begin to gather, rolling down his cheeks. “But I will take care of you. Always. I promise.” It was in that moment, when life was slipping away that she felt that pang of regret. Screaming inside, trying to find some way to tell him it was alright. To reach up and wipe the tears. But he was sounding so far away now, she couldn’t make out what he was saying anymore, though she knew he was still talking, at least until he wasn’t and there was darkness, and silence. They stayed there like that, for some time. The man holding her close and rocking her, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. It was quite some time later that he finally moved. Wiping his eyes with the backs of his sleeves and picking up her lifeless form. He carried her across the room, setting her down upon the bed she used. Laying her down atop the furs, he runs a gloved hand lightly over a cheek, murmuring softly. “Rest here. Until I am finished.” The man did not linger long. Moving out into the storm to begin building, using much of the dried wood he had found inside and protected from the Elements. Ready to burn. It took time, but slowly the structure began to take shape, a funerary pyre. He wandered a distance out from the house, finding herbs and flowers to add to it, those sparse plants that grew in such frozen places. Returning to the house he slips inside. Finding the single trunk set near the end of the bed. Within the trunk were the sparse few things she held dear. A few letters and sketches. Porcelain doll and jeweled Nightbloom Lilly. A violin and an unworn wedding gown. He took them all and placed them upon the pyre, laying them out before returning inside once more. Returning to the bed, he gently picks up the woman, holding her close one last time as he moves to set her upon the pyre, amongst those few things she held dear, arranging them to keep them close. The wind of the storm had died down some as he had worked, which suited his purposes well enough. Lighting the Pyre the man steps back, just far enough out of range he would not be caught by the licking flames if the wind were to pick up or change again. He stands, watching as the structure goes up in flames, burning with a bright intensity uncommon in these parts, hand over his heart and unmoving until the flames died down several hours later. Work was never done and there were still tasks to do. Moving carefully through the charred remains he gathers up what he could of her, scooping it into a container and separating as much burnt wood and ash from crushed bone as was possible to do by hand. Sealing that off he returns inside only once more. He remains within only a moment before exiting with hurried steps as the small homestead erupted into flames behind him. Picking up the container of ashes he vanishes into the nights storm, leaving the evidence of the womans life there to burn.

[ramblingsofanorn]

Gunnar the Worn

Where a Norn’s legend felt like it ran out of pages to be written on.

In the days following Svlen’s death, life turned into a blur.

He carried the body with Gundahar and Ishild back to the nearest Pact Base camp, and they were further sent, escorted, from camp to camp, working their way out of the Jungle. At some point the line of the actions of the Bronze Roar seemed to blur with the automatons he’d created. Enough lifelike features built in to keep people from worried, and to be endearing, but there was always the background thought that it was something pre-programmed.

After Mordremoth fell, the trip out of the jungle, back to Hoelbrak was easier. The moment they got there, they began to sing the Legend of the Thunderer. The pyre built, all three of them made sure Svlen would never be forgotten in the halls of the massive steading, and not only that, all three still tell the Legend to this day. A celebration of their brother, long since his passing into Raven’s Wings.

Days turned to weeks, and Gunnar returned to life, and routine, in his workshop. Wake up, cook breakfast. Blueprint new trinkets and toys. Shape them. Make lunch. Hunt for food for the next week. Get home. Butcher game. Package excess to deliver to the nearby homestead, turn out lights, sleep.

Sometimes his mind carried him back to Lion’s Arch. Or to the far Shiverpeaks. Or even the Jungle. Other nights he had nightmares that made him have to sleep longer into the day. That was fine. If he visited anyone, they tended not to mind if he came later in the day. His projects could wait now that he was effectively retired. It was fine. He was fine.

Over time the bags under his eyes became a bit more permanent, but, if anyone asked, it was simply because he was working later into the night. He was excited about his new project. He could smile and be convincing, nodding a lot about it and ‘excitedly’ rattle off enough technobabble to seem passionate about the new toy he was working on.

Half finished mechanical wolves soon became packs of variously limbless, or ‘Skinless,’ automatons on his workbenches. a few bears who missed their metal hides earned a den somewhere in the shelves above his fireplace. Ravens without beaks, a couple missing wings hung from his ceiling. The few finished pieces he made were always delivered to Hoelbrak, to the shamans to distribute to the children, or a homestead or two in sore need. Never overstayed his welcome, always comfy at home.

Once in a blue moon, he’d get messages from old friends. He’d respond, saying how he was keeping busy, and happy. That’s why he wasn’t out more, but that was the usual. He went out once or twice, but, he always excused himself quietly before anything became a Moot. Slowly, his Legend, slowly became routine.

The Bronze roar became wake up. The Slayer of the Icebringer became cook. Magister became hunt. The best Engineer this side of the Shiverpeaks became design, Two Kegs became sleep. Wake up, cook, hunt, design, sleep, wake up cook, hunt, design, deliver, sleep. On and on and on. He always was satisfied with just having his name known, only really telling the stories once in a blue moon when he was asked.

The only company he could handle anymore were his former teammates. Svlen among them. Not that he’d tell anyone that. This was Gunnar, the one with all the smiles, the Wolf-claimed. He would hold to that standard for himself, at least hold up that appearance anyway.

Over time, many people seemed to drift off, and it wasn’t anyone’s exact fault, really. Gunnar seemed to be happy enough keeping to himself, the new life was treating him well, and he wasn’t totally isolated, there was little reason for concern. All things he said, to himself and others. There wasn’t a problem at all.

Letters from the Priory offering him a chance to come back in a clerical capacity stacked up near his door. Offerings to go North with the Norn who chipped the Tooth were denied. Gunnar was done with the more grand life anyway. His Legend was respectable enough as it was.

Then, on a hunt, he came across an owl griffon nest, seemingly abandoned, with a Son seeming to be considering using the egg for… Something. Gunnar acted more out of some long-forgotten reflex and fired a single shot into the man, making him keel over. In those moments, Gunnar went and let himself pick up the egg, gently tucking it underneath an arm as he went home. He’d enough meat for the coming week anyway.

Making an incubator was a simple enough process, especially with the experience he had with working with heat and flame. He made the little thing a nest, kept it near his bed, and monitored it.

Wake up, cook breakfast, check egg, design, make lunch, hunt, check egg, make dinner, check egg, sleep. This went on for weeks-- Until the egg began to crack, and hatch. For the first time in a very long time, excitement bubbled up somewhere in his gut. When the so very small little creature was free, Gunnar quickly cleaned it-- Her!-- Off of all the fluids that kept her warm, and nourished within the egg. At some point a name, Little Wing, was bestowed upon the creature, and on came raising a new friend.

A young griffon, while fluffy with down feathers, and still rather clumsy between its four legs, and wings, was still rambunctious and a handful. He’d helped with wolf pups before, so he wasn’t too out of sorts, but, he slowly had to shift his routine. He had to get out more so the chick could have more time in the fresh air to stretch her legs. He was feeding two, so he had to hunt just that bit more. He even approached others around Hoelbrak about raising such a creature when he was at a loss. With more people seeing him, he got back to making sure his hair was taken care of past the usual hygiene. Toys had to be finished to keep his new friend stimulated-- As she grew and grew.

Gunnar made sure to keep her socialized, just so she wouldn’t snap, peck, or claw ay anyone who’d approach him. Even if he knew this would be temporary, until she was grown enough to fly, hunt, and strike out on her own, it was giving her more tools to live with. There were plenty of other Norn who’d be more than happy to make sure she was taken care of- And not only that Owl Griffons were intelligent things. And thus, when the weeks passed on into months, and down feathers turned into flight feathers and an adult coat, the time to say goodbye  came and went. The Norn had a sense of fulfillment to him that tempered the sadness of having to say goodbye to a constant companion and friend. But he had a sense it wouldn’t be for forever.

Still, in some ways he returned to old routines. But he was still getting out more, not as reclusive. And this seemed to culminate into a hunting trip a bit further than his usual grounds, months and months after the farewells. He was tracking a herd of deer, a small snowstorm picking up and cutting away visibility over time. But he pressed forward-- Until there was a crunch in the snow, and like far too many memories before, old memories, a  polar bear rose, and swiped a mighty paw across his chest, knocking him to the ground.

Gunnar only hard the time to bear his teeth and roar some sort of rebuke-- The beast was hungry, and large, and Gunnar was good enough looking prey to hungry eyes. Gunnar understood all of this, and on some level, he felt like this was his end. The bear fell upon him, teeth clamping down on his shoulder, the engineer crying out in pain. His one eye staring up past the fur, hands half-heartedly trying to to push it off.

There was a shrill cry from the trees above, a flash of white that could have been a simple flash of snow-- And then the weight was off of him. A squawk, grunts and groans from the bear-- And then the padding off. Red leaked out underneath Gunnar into the snow, and Gunnar’s vision began to fade as he vaguely felt himself being nosed under and picked up by some soft, strong thing, before he passed out.

The story of Little Wing’s return was told to him after he woke up, shoulder and chest bandaged and healing, with the large beast curled up at his feet, not willing to let anyone close. The message being clear that Gunnar wasn’t going to be alone for a long while. At least until he was done healing-- Physically and mentallly.

[m0nsterella-blog]

Wolfram - What's yer warband's general assignment?

Wolfram: Heavy industry. Recently, mining specifically. They got us out in the middle of nowhere, freezing our tails off so we can grind metal out of the mountains. Did I mention that we have to shower outdoors? In the snow? And the packaged rations? We rarely get fresh meat, because no one has time to hunt…”Wow, he’s whiny today. 

Wolfram is a revenant by class, but started out an Iron Legion engineer. He still works as a mechanic and specializes in metallurgy, but he knows his way around an engine (that’s how he got assigned to work with Ampris). He’s not fond of the assignment to the Shiverpeaks because he hates snow and Norn beer.