Tarven Greysmith

Tarven Greysmith is a traveling mercenary with the look of someone who’s spent more time on back roads than in barracks. His black dreadlocks are tied into a ponytail, bunches of them streaking down his neck and shoulders, and he keeps his shirt lazily unbuttoned as if fetching work orders isn’t worth the bother. Twin blades ride easy in his hands—short enough to pull fast, long enough to make a mess when he commits.

He’s a burly half-orc, light brown skin weathered by sun and camp smoke, with piercing brown eyes that miss nothing. Bone jewelry clinks when he moves: simple pieces on his ears and neck that get between him and silence. A thick beard frames his grin, with his orcish tusks showing when he talks—usually while he’s bargaining, boasting, or asking what the job pays before he even reaches the “what’s the target?” part.

Tarven’s got a sleazy disposition, the kind that makes strangers uneasy and old rivals grin. He’ll offer to “help you out” with a hand on your shoulder too long, then claim it’s just how he shakes dice with fate. When the contracts start and the fighting begins, though, he tightens up—closing distance like a hunter and cutting like he means to get paid, not praised.