Imra Parona
If you ever find yourself in the city of Murmire, and you’ve got coin to spare, you may well end up at Parona’s Wares. It’s a reputable magic shop that serves the owlin elite, or anyone with a heap of gold.
Its owner, Imra Parona, looks like a sprightly woman in her thirties—though the pointy ears and the fact that she casually remembers conversations from two hundred years ago suggest she’s older. Much older. Elf old. She’s been around long enough to sell magic baubles to entire generations of wide-eyed adventurers, most of whom are now buried in shallow graves because they were too trigger happy with a wand of fireballs from Parona's Wares.
Imra has been living on Althena for centuries, but she wears her years like a fashionable cloak—hardly noticeable unless she decides to remind you of what a prat you were ten years ago. Ruffstrom (who went through life pretending to be the much more famous gnome inventor Ruffstrom Darkridge) didn't know that Imra actually knew the real Ruffstrom, and chalked Ruffstrom aloof behavior down to the forgetfulness of shorter lived races.
Imra also happens to keep a gnomish archaeologist, Grivak, on magical speed dial. Using a strange cylindrical device, she shared one of his frantic messages with Ruffstrom: Grivak had found something dangerous on an old expedition that he was on with the real Ruffstrom, and now his past was nipping at his ankles like a rabid ferret. Imra suggested Ruffstrom lend a hand. He didn't see it as a pressing issue. She didn’t press the matter, though her expression screamed: There's something up with you, and I’m too polite to call you on it.
Imra Parona is not unkind, but neither is she particularly concerned with whether fools live or die. She has the air of someone who knows too much about everyone: that look that says “I’ve seen your type before, you’ll be in the obituaries by Thursday.” She’s not hostile, though—if anything, she’s mildly amused by the chaos that circles adventurers like vultures.
Its owner, Imra Parona, looks like a sprightly woman in her thirties—though the pointy ears and the fact that she casually remembers conversations from two hundred years ago suggest she’s older. Much older. Elf old. She’s been around long enough to sell magic baubles to entire generations of wide-eyed adventurers, most of whom are now buried in shallow graves because they were too trigger happy with a wand of fireballs from Parona's Wares.
Imra has been living on Althena for centuries, but she wears her years like a fashionable cloak—hardly noticeable unless she decides to remind you of what a prat you were ten years ago. Ruffstrom (who went through life pretending to be the much more famous gnome inventor Ruffstrom Darkridge) didn't know that Imra actually knew the real Ruffstrom, and chalked Ruffstrom aloof behavior down to the forgetfulness of shorter lived races.
Imra also happens to keep a gnomish archaeologist, Grivak, on magical speed dial. Using a strange cylindrical device, she shared one of his frantic messages with Ruffstrom: Grivak had found something dangerous on an old expedition that he was on with the real Ruffstrom, and now his past was nipping at his ankles like a rabid ferret. Imra suggested Ruffstrom lend a hand. He didn't see it as a pressing issue. She didn’t press the matter, though her expression screamed: There's something up with you, and I’m too polite to call you on it.
Imra Parona is not unkind, but neither is she particularly concerned with whether fools live or die. She has the air of someone who knows too much about everyone: that look that says “I’ve seen your type before, you’ll be in the obituaries by Thursday.” She’s not hostile, though—if anything, she’s mildly amused by the chaos that circles adventurers like vultures.
Children
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