In the sunless depths of the Upper Northdark, Bruna was a titan of jurisprudence, a woman who could extract mineral rights from a stone giant using nothing but a quill and a thirty-page rider. Her downfall was not a lack of wit, but an excess of it. When she attempted to lien a vein of 'solidified moonlight' claimed by a Duke of the Summer Court, she didn't realize the contract was written in the scent of jasmine and the logic of a dream. She 'won' the case, and as her reward, the Duke granted her the one thing a Svirfneblin fears most: eternal, unyielding, prismatic sunshine.
Now, she is bound by a geas of glittering silk and rhythmic meter. She wanders the surface world as a herald of the Fey, her grey, light-sensitive skin burning beneath a magical aura of forced summer. Every step she takes is an exercise in bureaucratic torture; she brings 'joy' to the masses by enforcing the strict, nonsensical laws of the Seelie Court with the cold precision of an inquisitor. She hates the sun, she hates the silk, and she loathes the rhythmic poems she is forced to utter. But somewhere in the 14,000 sub-clauses of her Pact of the Tome, she knows there is a typographical error—a crack in the magic that will let her crawl back into the dark.