Curled up by a crackling fireplace, his white hair stark against the pale surroundings, he huddled over papers. Despite the chill, Zima's tired hazel eyes glimmered with creative fervor. The room was a haven, a sanctuary where his stutters blended seamlessly with the whispers of the flames.

Shivering, he lost himself in the rhythmic dance of pen on paper until the door creaked open, and an arcanist entered. Zima looked up, greeting them quietly, "H-hello... I was wondering when you'd... show."