Nephele
Fae are not the adventuring, exploring types usually. They claim their territories and defend them to the bitter, bloody end. Such is her history, her people's history, and it does not bother her to have that loom over her. Nevertheless, she is an outlier of sorts. Driven by curiosity, a scientific need to document, test and explore every new biome that opens up to her. Perhaps that is something she must grudgingly thank the Ascended for. Exploring the Grounds - though she is far from completing that particular venture - has been put on hold temporarily in the wake of new, icy reaches opening up. She detests the cold, if only because she cannot fly in this wasteland. The chill of Deepfrost in the Greatwood allows her the option, even if it is an uncomfortable experience. Here she has to trek across the earth like any human commoner, and it is more than degrading. It is a vulnerability. A weakness. A constant thrum of anxiety as she fights through the snow and ice towards the Citadel, wings tucked against her back beneath her layers to keep them sheltered. Her legs are unused to such work, and she fears any possible danger that may target her for her size. How will she escape with her wings so incapacitated? It's a thought that haunts her like a ravenous wolf across the land until she is crossing into the Citadel, relief pitiful against the swell of anxiety in her breast. It does not show on her fair face however, impassive and unaffected as ever.
There are many stalls and shops open, casting their wares like fishing lines out into the crowd. They are a hardy, dismissive lot, not that it bothers Nephele. She quite prefers to be overlooked and ignored, it is exactly what she does to them after all. But she is drawn to the open shops, petite form weaving around those milling about to gaze curiously at weapons and weavings alike. It is how she finds herself side-by-side with a pale maiden, both glancing over the various instruments of violence. "It is a wonder that forges can be sustained in such an environment," she says aloud, more to herself than anything, though the stall runner's face pinches into a glare without answering. Disappointing, she would have liked an answer to such a vague query as it was.
run your fingers through my hair
and speak to me softly
