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They Gentry call her Magpie.

A wordsmith with a love of poetry, a crafter of trinkets, a clever bird with a glittering hoard and too many wits for her own good. She was an easy mark, once, easily lured by shiny baubles and flowery words, a prize songbird fit for slaughter. But, like all corvids, she was both smart and loud; she knew when she was being tricked, and fled into the Library squawking bloody murder, a clarion call for whatever aid could be spared. Her emergence was a storm of reflected light and righteous fury, the grudge of a corvid whose flock had been pestered for far too long. She took back what was hers and then some; her new boundaries clearly drawn in salt and spilled blood. She is a thief, the Gentry say, and she wears her namesake well.

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