Zorvyn Kallis

Zorvyn Kallis keeps his blade wrapped in oiled linen, even at camp, and refuses to answer questions twice. A lean man with sun-creased tan skin and a grey-flecked beard, he wears his hair short and his knuckles scarred from counting—locks, door-bars, wagon wheels—anything with moving parts. Neutral in speech, he still picks sides in tavern games: whoever pays the bet before supper gets his steel.