Nissa Kennard

She moves like someone who has lived too long among books—measured, quiet, slightly disconnected from the world of living voices. Her name is Lydia Thane, Scribe of the New Medical Library, though most simply call her “The Recall.” It’s an apt name. Lydia remembers everything she’s ever read—every formula, every diagram, every fragment of pre-Fall poetry or half-burnt ledger that’s passed through her hands. The words cling to her mind like ink stains that never fade. Ask her to recall a specific volume, and she’ll quote the exact page, line, and margin note. Ask her what she did yesterday, and she’ll hesitate, as though the memory were something printed too faintly to read.

Her talent is both blessing and burden. Books, she understands completely. People—less so. Her interactions are often halting, her tone absent-minded, as if conversation were an interruption to a grander internal narrative. Lydia is known for her tapping—fingers drumming gently against parchment, tables, or the cover of whatever book she’s reading. It’s rhythmic, like a metronome keeping time for her thoughts. Even when she’s silent, the tapping speaks for her, a subconscious echo of all the pages she’s turned.

In the library, she is a constant presence, always buried in manuscripts or overseeing transcription work. She favors those whose minds move swiftly—those who see patterns where others see confusion. To her, intelligence is not just a trait but a virtue. She gravitates toward sharp thinkers like a moth to lamplight, their company a rare pleasure in a world too dulled by loss. But for those who stumble over their words or ask the same question twice, Lydia’s patience frays quickly. She tries to hide it—tries to be kind—but her sighs and distant tone betray her thoughts. “Some minds,” she once muttered to a fellow scribe, “are simply unshelved.”

Her life’s work has become an obsession: the creation of a definitive series of tomes cataloging the surviving medical, biological, and chemical knowledge of the pre-Fall era. She works tirelessly on it, sometimes for days without rest, driven by the belief that what was lost can still be rebuilt—if only it can be written down correctly. To Lydia, writing is resurrection. Every recorded word is a small rebellion against extinction.

Yet, for all her brilliance, she is hopeless at secrecy. Secrets, to Lydia, feel like locked books—and she cannot resist opening them. It’s not malicious; it’s instinctual. Information demands to be shared. This trait has made her both invaluable and dangerous among the Scribes. When something sensitive passes through her hands, everyone knows it will not stay hidden for long. The truth is her addiction, and she dispenses it freely, even when it cuts too deep.

Despite her flaws, there’s something magnetic about Lydia Thane. Her intellect burns bright, her passion for knowledge unyielding. In the quiet halls of the New Medical Library, her presence lingers like the smell of parchment and ink—faint but unmistakable. She is a mind made of paper and memory, bound not by blood but by books.