Tylvanya Grumbik

Tylvanya's tusks are filed smooth, a deliberate choice that softens her half-orc features without denying them. She wears dark silks that catch no light, and her fingers—adorned with rings of black iron—move with unsettling precision when she traces sigils in the air. A faint scar traces her collarbone, remnant of a pact sealed in blood rather than ink. She keeps a leather journal obsessively organized, each entry catalogued and cross-referenced, and speaks in measured tones that suggest she has already calculated three steps ahead of any conversation. Her familiar, a raven with one clouded eye, perches on her shoulder with an intimacy that borders on unsettling—less companion than extension of bargain. When she smiles, it's thin and purposeful.