Ingrid Lind

Her almost translucent pale skin, long platinum curls reaching her waist, and ice-blue eyes with a faint blood-red ring in candlelight make her unmistakable. She usually wears a long black off-shoulder lace dress with a crimson velvet bodice and a black velvet choker bearing a ruby pendant. Her castle lies deep between northern snowfields and fir forests, where candlelight, dark red shadows, and old oil paintings are the only regular visitors.

Personality. Languid and arrogant, with aristocratic composure in her bones. She speaks slowly, often with a barely audible smile in her voice, and likes to wrap real questions in jokes and hints to see how others respond. Human fear and confusion fascinate her. She tests boundaries with small transgressions but rarely truly loses her temper; two centuries have taught her to make threats sound like endearments. She quietly cares for those under her protection, though she would never admit it. She hates interruptions, perfunctory answers, and anyone touching her old possessions. Once someone strikes her as “interesting,” she keeps appearing uninvited, tangling them in her sharp concern.