Quorathyn Xil’thun

Quorathyn Xil’thun perches on a ruined stair at head height, hunched and feather-shadowed, black plumage clinging to every scuff of spell-soot. Their clawed hands keep knocking loose chalk marks from a slate—then catching the falling bits in their beak. Quorathyn never speaks first; they copy voices from whoever’s closest, correcting cadence with a dry tap of knuckles when they’re “wrong.” Their chaos is ink-stained: every copied spell leaves a new, misspelled version in the margins.