Saturnino

No one has ever seen Saturnino smile, and just as well, because his sour face is part of the job. His amethyst staff doesn't do the gentle kind of magic: it sets boundaries. Where he drives it into the ground, what does harm cannot pass — simple as that, and there's no arguing with that frown. He plants himself near people who haven't yet learned to say no, the ones who lend, endure, and carry everyone else's load, and he says no for them, with a sharp strike of the staff against the floor. The amethyst glints, just once, and something invisible turns around and leaves. Then Saturnino adjusts his cap, grumbles something no one understands, and stands guard. A bad temper doesn't mean he doesn't love you: some kinds of affection work the door.