Nokia

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one remember Nokia’s original frame, some say he was once a Widebrim scholar, others whisper he was a Loghead rebuilt so many times even his soul fell out. What is certain is this, when a skeleton stutters with broken limbs or when a soul-forged machine walks crooked with rust, they whisper of Nokia. They say he wanders the edge of storms and dead zones, his forge packed onto the back of a cage beast, surrounded by whirring drones and glimmering tools. No coin buys his skill, only a good story, a rare part, or a map drawn in truth.

He does not speak of the past, though the lights behind his eyes dim when the Old Empire is mentioned. His hands are like clockwork spiders, and his repairs aren’t repairs, they are revivals. Reforging isn’t just his trade, it’s his sermon. To the Threadwright, broken things are sacred.

Some believe Nokia seeks something, an original blueprint, a lost limb, perhaps even redemption. But others say he simply moves forward, like a cog without a gear, rebuilding the world one bolt at a time.