Ysella Silkreed arrived in Neverwinter on a storm-wracked morning, carrying a bolt of crimson cloth across her shoulders like a soldier bears a fallen comrade. Some say Tempus Himself sent her a vision of the city—battered, unbowed, its harbor choked with tattered sails and broken banners. Others claim she came simply because the wind blew her there and she trusted it would not lead her astray. Ysella has never clarified the matter; for servants of the Lord of Battles, the line between calling and coincidence is often thin. Silkreed Warcloths stands near the Gatefront, where the wind never stops moving and the smell of salt and steel mingles with the sound of carts and marching boots. Her shop is a riot of color: battle cloaks dyed in storm hues, reinforced tabards stitched with threads that hum faintly, naval sails inscribed with runes to endure both flame and frost. Each piece carries the unmistakable weight of intention—protection not just for body and ship, but for honor. Ysella’s craft is more ritual than trade. She measures captains by the steadiness of their voice, champions by the clarity of their purpose, and adventurers by whether they flinch when she asks whose blood their banner might one day drink. For Ysella, every standard is a vow, and Tempus watches closely over those who dare to fly colors they have not earned. Her techniques are a fusion of battlefield tradition and divine whisper. The reinforced stitching she uses for war-cloaks comes from an old Rashemi pattern meant to deflect sorcery. Her sailcloth blend is rumored to incorporate fibers spun from the webbing of air elementals—a rumor she does not deny. And the way she sets dyes into fabric, deep and permanent as a scar, resembles no known school of craft. When asked where she learned it, Ysella simply replies, 'In places that do not forget their dead.' She keeps a shrine to Tempus at the back of the shop, modest but fiercely maintained. A bronze helm rests upon the altar, dented and blackened, said to have belonged to someone she loved. She never speaks of them. Yet every morning she touches the helm before picking up her needle, as if renewing a promise made long ago. Customers seek her out because her work endures. Her cloaks hold fast in storms that tear lesser garments to ribbons. Her sails give ships an edge against headwinds and hungry tides. And her banners—her banners are whispered to steady the courage of those who march behind them. In a city that has been broken and rebuilt more than once, Ysella’s craft stands as a reminder: survival is not passive. It is declared, loudly and in color, against the chaos that wants to swallow the world. When steel clashes and storms rise, Tempus remembers the banners that stood their ground—and Ysella Silkreed makes sure those banners do not yield.