Vyralla Qelmor

Vyralla Qelmor drinks in favors like a drink: quick, greedy, and never free. Satyr horns curl up through corkscrew curls of black-grease hair; her cloven hooves leave chalky prints on stone. She keeps her spellbook wrapped in ribbon stolen from a temple doorway, and she speaks in sing-song taunts that make guards miscount. When the air tastes of lightning, her grin widens and she laughs off the consequences—until someone else has to pay.