For decades, Thistle lived by the roar of the Vane clan’s furnaces, convinced that glass was the only material that truly understood the soul: molten and chaotic at birth, but capable of becoming something transcendent and frozen in perfect clarity. Her life shattered when a 'border dispute' between local warlords leveled her workshop, reducing years of intricate masterpieces to jagged, bloody shards. She didn't weep for the glass; she wept for the lack of vision that led men to prefer the jaggedness of war over the smoothness of a finished vase.
She took up her tools and her ancestors' armor not to seek vengeance, but to impose an 'Annealing' upon the world. She joined the Order of the Silver Kiln, adapting the Oath of Conquest into a philosophy of Mandatory Serenity. To Thistle, a battlefield is simply a messy workshop, and every chaotic soul is a 'gather' of molten glass that needs to be blown into a better shape. She believes that if she can just exert enough pressure—enough glorious, undeniable Order—the world will finally cool into a masterpiece that can never be broken again. She marches into the fray not as a butcher, but as the world's most insistent sculptor.