Wynn

Wynn does not discuss exactly how old she is, and the few people who have pressed her on the subject have found the conversation redirected with a fluency that suggests long practice. What is apparent is that she has been in Brinegate for several decades, that she arrived from somewhere far enough away that the details have grown abstract, and that in that time she has accumulated an informal archive of stories, written, spoken, remembered, that takes up most of two rooms in the apartment above the The Last Soun Inn where she works most mornings and evenings.

She plays several instruments well and one instrument extraordinarily. The extraordinary instrument does not have a conventional name. She built it herself, over a period of years, and the sound it makes in the right hands (her hands) has been described variously as: a human voice translated into weather, a conversation between two rivers, the sound a story makes when it is finally told to the right person. The vines responded to it. Most things do, eventually.

She is a patron of the arts and try to keep art important in a world that is constantly thinking about how to survive.