Zyrrakhtan Vurothil

Zyrrakhtan Vurothil keeps his bow wrapped in oiled cloth, then checks the string knot by counting—always three pulls, always the same spot on the deckplank. His green-brown scales mottled like river stones show up along his sleeves when he moves; his slit-pupiled gaze tracks trouble through blinds and shadows, forked tongue tasting the air between orders he gives in a calm, clipped voice. He’s lawful good in the field: he posts his rules on parchment, then hunts anyone who breaks them.