Aaralyn Klothilde Kendal

Aaralyn Klothilde Kendal keeps to the corners, both in life and in conversation. As a Book Keeper of the Scribes, she is more often seen than heard, her voice a soft and reluctant thing, coaxed out only when someone has the will—and patience—to speak to her first. Even then, her words are few, and her gaze, more often than not, is somewhere else entirely, fixed far beyond the moment as if she’s watching something only she can see.

She favors humans over all other folk, a preference she does not disguise, and in the same breath, she quietly dismisses The Awakened and The Others as lesser, though she is too reserved to say so aloud unless pressed. Her judgments are subtle but unmistakable, woven into the small choices of who she helps first, who she lingers near, and whose company she avoids.

Her hands, however, tell a warmer story. She is an expert carpenter—an unlikely skill born not from apprenticeship but from the pages of an old book she once stumbled across. What began as curiosity became a consuming hobby, and her home bears the proof: chairs with joints so tight they’ll last decades, tables polished to a honeyed glow, shelves carved with patient hands. Her workshop, a modest corner of her own house, is sacred to her—the most important place in her world. It is where she learned, where she still creates, and where her generosity is at its most visible. She will teach her craft to anyone willing to learn, believing her talent is a gift meant to be shared for the benefit of others.

And yet, generosity has its limits. A rare or priceless item—especially one tied to her trade—will stir a dangerous hunger in her. In such moments, the quiet, watchful woman becomes something sharper, willing to cross lines she otherwise keeps intact.

In the library, she is a fixed presence. Lantern-light gilds her bent figure as she works at her desk, the raven-feather quill moving with deliberate care across brittle pages. The air is heavy with the musk of dust and age, and the shelves sag under the weight of the world’s forgotten words. It is here, amid the slow decay of human achievement, that Aaralyn thrives—not in noise or acclaim, but in the silent, steady work of preserving what remains, her mind as intent on the grain of the wood in her furniture as on the grain of history in the pages before her. She is a woman of few words, many judgments, and one unshakable truth: she will leave her mark not by speaking, but by making.