[ The forge is warm enough from the heat of the furnace, but Koltira himself is a pillar of winter. He radiates cold, from his ice lantern eyes to his slate-colored skin. He has an otherworldly beauty to him, like all elves do, but there's something smeared about it, something cracked and strange. He watches her come in with an inscrutable expression. His voice is low and smooth, almost breathy, but there's an echoing quality to it, as though he's constantly attended by a chorus of spirits. ]
My name is Koltira. Koltira Deathweaver.
[ He leans against the anvil, his gaze fixed to her. ]
no subject
My name is Koltira. Koltira Deathweaver.
[ He leans against the anvil, his gaze fixed to her. ]
And you?