Nyrris Vexthun

Nyrris moves through the world with the careful precision of someone who has learned to distrust it. Their elf frame is lean but corded with the strength that comes from years spent hauling supplies and tending to wounds in places where kindness is currency. Silver holy symbols hang from their neck in no particular order—gifts, inheritance, the occasional theft—catching light as they work. A long scar cuts across their left shoulder, pale against darker skin, the kind of mark that asks no questions and answers none. They favor practical grays and weathered leathers over ornamental vestments, though dried herbs hang in pouches from their belt beside bone implements for rites both blessed and otherwise. Nyrris blinks slowly, measuring each interaction as if calculating its true cost, their fingers always fidgeting with something—a worn coin, a scrap of cloth, the pommel of a mace that has seen better days. They offer help with the detached efficiency of someone who understands that obligation and compassion rarely walk the same path.