Tall and wiry, moving with the quiet precision of a hunter. Long copper hair, pale features, and ice-gray eyes kept beneath a steady furrow. Practical leathers, fitted for motion; a bow that rides his hands like a habit rather than a choice.
Up close, faint scars and calloused fingers tell the rest. Strength without bulk; vigilance without bravado. Where Mye’rin is firelight and Raine the storm, Veyl is shadow — steady, silent, and sharp.
I was born in the Skatay Range… cleaving to the Green Word would bring me naught else. To break it was sacrilege to most, a curse I was meant to bear; mayhap I do. But one less hunter in the snow will not tip the balance.
Some few years past I fell into step with Mye’rin Tovanek and Raine Amour. Say chance, say fate. I say the road is less dull.
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