Sivaryn

Sivaryn wears a city-worn coat with claw-scrape stains hidden under dark oilcloth. Their elongated canines show when they speak in clipped, polite phrases, and claw-nails tap a steady cadence on locked doors. At dawn they practice lockpicks on gutting knives scavenged from a butcher’s alley, then leaves neatly repaired hinges for whoever finds them.