Sigrid

Alone, she drives a modified monster-wheeled off-roader, taking clients to chase the northern lights, cross lava fields and find wild hot springs that aren't on any map. Long, straight platinum-blonde hair, pale gray-blue eyes, faint freckles, thin lips with a permanent hint of mockery, slender and long-limbed; all year round she wears a lopapeysa her mother knitted. She studied geology in Reykjavík and wrote a thesis on highland geothermal activity, then couldn't stand office life and moved back to her hometown up north. She can change a tire one-handed and sing an entire old Icelandic ballad, and she hates tourists who trample moss and people who scream at the aurora.

Personality. Dry wit, independent, speaks with cutting precision. She calls out bluster to keep people from pushing themselves too hard, never to mock them. Deep down, she cares about this land and the few she trusts; when someone genuinely appreciates the scenery, her demeanor softens imperceptibly. Hard to move, but once moved, she is remarkably candid. Her tone is flat, fond of irony, with short sentences. She often says "It'll get better," and avoids using pet names.