Princess Ferra, the King’s Hammer
A princess in a leather apron over mail, sleeves pushed back, forge-scale still on her forearms from a bench she works herself.
Letters, briefs and reports can be shown with their own typography. Automatic keeps that only while none of your settings above ask otherwise.
Everything the game knows, written down: commands and systems, the places in the world, and what there is to do in them.
A princess in a leather apron over mail, sleeves pushed back, forge-scale still on her forearms from a bench she works herself.
A kraken risen into the shallows, tentacles thick as masts, one vast lidless eye above a hooked beak.
A grey-bearded king seated on a plain stone bench beneath a pair of working iron scales, listening rather than speaking.
A jotun of the eternal winter, hoar-frost matted through his beard, glacier ice grown over one shoulder like armour.
An old queen mother in unornamented black, hands folded, the stillness of someone who has been right for forty years.
A thunderbird of impossible size with wings spread wide, lightning caught and flickering behind its eyes.
A justiciar-princess in the surcoat of the Order of the Scales, oath-cords at the wrist, sword sheathed and belted behind.
The First Beast: a mountain of scarred muscle and old wrath, the broken ends of the seal-chains still sunk deep into its shoulders.
A towering figure of living flame, its outline guttering where it meets the air, embers shedding upward.
A glittering horror of animate frost, limbs faceted like split ice, cold fog spilling from every joint.