Yzathor Fenriss

Yzathor moves through shadows with the coiled grace of a predator, scaled skin rippling bronze and emerald beneath expertly maintained leather armor. A ranger's tools hang methodically from their belt—rope, vials, a bow strung with obsidian-dark sinew—yet their serpentine features betray an impatience with order, yellow eyes tracking movement no human could follow. A jagged scar splits their left cheekbone, a reminder of a kill they didn't finish for the right reasons, and they absently trace it when plotting. They speak rarely but with cutting precision, fingers drumming against their thigh in a restless rhythm, already calculating the next move, the next escape, the next rule they'll break to save someone who doesn't deserve saving. There's a faint tension in their posture, as if every nerve expects betrayal—they've learned the hard way that cages wear many faces.