Tharnisyl Grelor

Tharnisyl Grelor keeps a brass chanter strapped to his ribs, its mouthpiece stained with sweet-smelling incense. Curly hair spills over small curved horns as he chats to strangers—then asks for “a quiet favor” while his pointed ears twitch at every heartbeat. When trouble starts, his cloven hooves tap in a measured rhythm and the chanter exhales crackling shadow-cold. He never travels without a pocketful of stolen keys and a smile he’s willing to sell.