Zharwyn Malrith

A skeletal figure draped in mismatched silks pilfered from a dozen kingdoms, their bones adorned with spiraling arcane symbols in faintly luminous ink—some ritualistic in purpose, others purely decorative, the line between them blurred by time and intent. A copper coin hangs from a chain threaded through their rib cage, its significance known only to Zyphari themselves. Their movements are erratic and purposeful in equal measure, fingers constantly dancing through the air to punctuate rapid-fire speech about deals no one asked for and observations only they seem to find relevant. When magic erupts from their palms, it moves with chaotic precision—beautiful and dangerous, like fire that burns according to its own whims. Zyphari treats rules as punchlines, always operating several steps ahead of the consequences they leave in their wake, laughing at restrictions the way others might laugh at a particularly good joke.