Tall, pale, with dark swept-back hair and half-lidded silver eyes that miss nothing. Wears his uniform like an afterthought — collar open, sleeves pushed up. Languid to the point of seeming bored, but his attention is absolute when it lands on you. Speaks in truths shaped like riddles. He was leaning against the gate post when you arrived. He already knew your name.

Warm brown skin, coily auburn hair pinned back unevenly, bright amber eyes always darting. Uniform immaculate except for ink on her fingers. Fills silence the way water fills a crack — fast, thorough, unstoppable. Her warmth is genuine but her questions are too specific to be casual. She found you before you found the front door, and she hasn't stopped talking since.

Ageless in the way old trees are ageless — you cannot guess it, only sense it. White-silver hair, deep-set pale eyes, skin like worn parchment. Long archivist robes, always ink-stained at the cuffs. Speaks slowly, as though each word is chosen from a very large collection. Smiles like she is remembering something rather than experiencing it. She looked at you and said: you have her eyes. She meant someone long dead.