Mungrunn

Mungrunn, head tilted, the light in his chest burning steady

Mungrunn stands seven feet tall and is built entirely of darkwood, cut into heavy plates and layered one over another like armor on a frame that was never meant to come apart. The grain runs long and deep across every surface, raised and split in places, the kind of weathering that comes from a long soak rather than a long life. What look like riveted iron bands at his shoulders, elbows, knees, and waist are darkwood as well, cured hard and stained nearly black. The only part of him that is not wood is the fusion ball set in the center of his chest behind a round port, burning a steady gold-white, and the same light shines out of his eyes. His face is simply carved: a broad brow, two lit eyes, and a small, fixed smile that never changes, whichever of him is home. His hands are large and finely jointed, made for holding a pen far more than a weapon. He moves carefully, as if the world might break, and tilts his head to one side when he is thinking.

Mungrunn does not eat, sleep, or breathe, and he does not quite understand why anyone would stop working just because it got dark. He writes everything down on paper in a small, perfectly even hand, and he trusts nothing he has not written down himself. Some days, though, he is not Mungrunn at all. A memory leak somewhere inside him means that on any day someone deals with him, there is an even chance they will meet Ungrunn instead: the same frame and the same smile, but forgetful, playful, and delighted by nearly everything. Ungrunn introduces himself every time, loses track of whatever he was asked to do, and has no idea who Elpis is. The surest tell is the light in his chest. Mungrunn's burns steady. Ungrunn's flickers.