<strong>Name:</strong>Oda Vladimira Krupskaya<br/><strong>Professions:</strong>Explorer / Ranger<br/><strong>Damage Capacity</strong><br/><em>Physique:</em>5<br/><em>Agility:</em>4<br/><em>Intellect:</em>3<br/><strong>Defence:</strong>14<br/><strong>ARM:</strong>10<br/><strong>Feat Points:</strong>3<br/><hr/><br/>Oda never liked the way her footfalls echoed in stone buildings, leather boots against flagstones, the sound carrying and reverberating in the lamplit darkness. Then there were the congregations, the throngs of people gathering, whispering, singing. It was too much: a sensory overload. At least the church emptied out at night. There was no one to hear her pass. No hidden voices to pique her attention.<br/><br/>She followed Valentine and listened. The alchemist had a way of rendering ideas into words, which by the rhythm and cadence of her speech, made the abstract tangible and appealing. And to Oda, who knew nothing of the process of physical transmogrification,<em>that</em>was a form of true alchemy. She reasoned that Valentine was right. There must have been a time when the world was still in the process of becoming and some residue of that time may have survived even in the so-called Age of Reason, crystallised, but still pregnant with power and purpose.<br/><br/>“These captured sounds are like caged birds, Valechka.” Her hidebound hands were restless. They felt empty. “They feel distant and forced if I cannot see the mouths or instruments from which they are produced. But listen I would.” Valentine’s devotion could be infectious and she had often spoken of it when they worked together at the tannery. But Oda suspected that there were songs that were older still and now silent.<br/><br/>Outside the drifting snows stirred. A sharp, bracing wind – the kiss of the Vila. It was so hard and unyielding it was almost sensual. It was the breath of the wild, even when it was grimed with the smoke of Nynsk’s foundries.  She was in her element again. The supple, deeply oiled leather and foxfur lining of her jerkin kept out the worst of the cold. But she liked it. It invigorated her limbs and prickled her skin. Greyed snow wisped and tangled in her wild hair, her auburn braid stirring. She held up the ladder for Valentine and watched the alchemical lamp’s glow surge to a blaze.<br/><br/>With the shadows shrouding the icy-rimed façade of the church dispersed, Oda saw the silhouette of the rider approach. She raised her hand in greeting. Upon closer inspection, the form draped over the horse seemed limp, but not rigid.<br/><br/>“Valechka, that is no body. I still see the spark of life.”<br/><br/>She motioned for the rider to approach.