Zkalrith S'firun

Zkalrith S’firun wears a charcoal coat with burnt cuffs and a brass clasp that hisses when rain hits it. His fire-genasi skin is stove-warm red-orange, patched with soot where he’s scorched himself practicing locks. When he lies, he scratches ember-grease into the seams of his gauntlets so he’ll remember which doors he promised to reopen. He keeps a ledger of favors in a tin box, and pays first—hands steady, grin quick, always gone before the shout.