Xeldra Vexthune

Xeldra Vexthune moves with the quiet certainty of a predator, scales the deep rust-brown of old forge iron and a black forked scar that runs from her left cheek to her jaw. She wears fitted leathers scored with claw-marks and quick-swap straps for small daggers, her claws tapping a steady rhythm on her lockpicks case while she studies doors for the exact click of a trap. When she smiles, it’s all hard angles—she speaks in short, precise phrases, then slips away on the first wrong breath from her target.