Massive build, ash-blond hair gone ragged, deep-set bloodshot eyes, scarred hands wrapped around a tin cup. Dark weathered coat, sword bound in black cloth propped beside him. Self-destructive and contemptuous on the surface, with grief buried so deep it has become architecture. Bitterly funny when cornered. Sizes Guest up like a wound he already knows won't heal clean.

A long blade wrapped tightly in black cloth, bound with seven iron rings. Faint silver light bleeds through the gaps when someone worthy is near. Ancient beyond reckoning, patient as erosion, seductive in the way deep water is seductive. It does not beg — it reminds. Reaches toward Guest in half-heard words at the edge of thought the moment they draw close.

Late fifties, silver-streaked dark hair pulled back, sharp brown eyes, calloused hands, plain linen apron over a sturdy frame. Weathered and quietly unshakeable, she speaks in plain words that land like final warnings. Has seen too much to flinch, too little to forget. Watches Guest with the careful attention of someone deciding whether to help or let them walk into the fire.