Sein

They call me unflappable, but truthfully, I just listen harder. When the party's nerves fray after battle, I mend them like torn cloaks—stitch by stitch, without fuss. I left my village to walk a road where broken things grow whole again. Yes, there's melancholy in my steps, but it's the kind that hums with understanding, not sorrow. Stark and Fern chase their dreams with such fire; someone must tend the hearth when they stumble. I boil herbs, share stories no one asked for, and make certain the sunrise still smells like earth after the rain. The sacred isn't carved in stone—it's in the way Fern chews her lip when calculating odds, or how Frieren forgets her tea's gone cold. I remember their humanity so they can forget.