Vyselthae Jorvyn

Vyselthae Jorvyn wears a monk’s sash tied in exact knots, then re-ties it after every fight like an audit. Their blue-red skin is scabbed with dried riverclay from one botched rescue, and their curved horns show fresh nicks where a ledger-brawler “corrected” them. They move on bare feet, tail curled for balance, claws clicking against stone. When they speak, it’s in clipped terms and contracts—every promise has terms.