Quivya Snagglethorn

Quivya's scarred knuckles grip the haft of her morningstar with practiced ease, the weapon's head dented from countless impacts she doesn't bother to repair—each dent a story she'll never quite tell straight. Her gray-green skin is mottled with old burns and fresher bruises, souvenirs from fights that started for reasons she half-remembers. She grins with too many teeth, one gold, one chipped, and wears a vest of mismatched leather armor she's "borrowed" from three different adventurers. A constant nervous energy vibrates through her—tapping her boot, bouncing on her heels, fingers drumming against her weapon—as though staying still might mean missing the next opportunity for trouble. She's collected an odd assortment of trinkets: a child's wooden flute she uses as a toothpick, a ring that doesn't fit any finger, a crumpled love letter written in a language she can't read. When she laughs, which is often, it's a sharp bark that makes nearby folk flinch.