Draxun Nightshroud

Draxun's whiskers twitch as he traces a finger along the spine of a leather-bound spellbook, his tail curling with barely contained impatience. The tabaxi's dark fur is matted in places where alchemical burns have scarred both skin and coat, souvenirs of experiments conducted in cramped caravan wagons and abandoned ruins. His fingers are stained with arcane ink—violet, silver, occasionally something that glows faintly in the dark—and he drums them against whatever surface is nearest when deep in thought. A collection of found objects dangles from his bandolier: a silver bell that never chimes, three glass vials of unknown purpose, a snapped wand he refuses to discard. His eyes gleam with the mischief of someone who asks forgiveness rather than permission, and who often forgets the asking part entirely. When casting, his movements are fluid and precise, each gesture a predator's economy of motion—until something distracts him mid-spell, and the whole careful architecture collapses into chaos.