Mother Nettle
Mother Nettle sits hunched behind her stall in The Hollow Market like a forgotten statue, her back bowed by time and her gaze heavy with the weight of too many years. Clad in a threadbare hooded robe that hangs like faded parchment, she spins thread from a material no one can name—neither silk nor sinew, but something older, something that hums faintly when touched. Her fingers, twisted and uneven, dance over the spindle with uncanny precision as she mutters low, unintelligible invocations that seem to stir the air around her. Wisps of wild white hair escape her hood, framing a face marked by a crooked nose and deep-set eyes that flicker with quiet disdain whenever children race past her stall. Yet beneath the scowl lies something softer—an aching envy, a flicker of longing for the joy and freedom she no longer remembers how to feel.
