Qylarin Astaryn

Qylarin Astaryn keeps his longbow strung with a strip of oiled deerhide knotted through the prod; he swears better tension keeps the nock from walking. A thin elf with ash-gray hair and a scar that splits his right brow, he smells of pine pitch and cold smoke. He talks to his tracking hound like it’s a co-worker, counting steps to the last bootprint. When he sights prey, he marks the wind with chalk on his fingers, then refuses to fire until it matches.