Xeltrien Vorekk

Xeltrien Vorekk keeps a coin in each ear, tucked behind the base of their long upright ears so the clink covers their breathing. They wear a patched leather jerkin scored with old crawl-marks and a hood that never sits right, like it was yanked into place mid-sprint. When they talk, it’s in quick, quiet bursts—half promises, half threats—then a laugh that sounds like a snare being tested. Their last job went wrong when a locked door refused to lie.