Gorvyn Tahlrek

Gorvyn Tahlrek keeps two hand drums tied to his belt with twine and a scrap of stage-blackened cloth. Satyr horns are nicked from old tavern fights; curly hair falls in tight ringlets over pointed ears that catch every insult. When he sings, he talks through the rhythm first—calling names, counting debts, correcting bad rumors in public. After a judge pardoned a thief he’d tailored a song for, Gorvyn vowed to use law like a chorus: fair, repeatable, never off-tempo.