STATS

NAME	Veyl Ghostfeather	OCCUPATION	Adventurer
SPECIES	Viera (Veena)	ROLE	Hunter
AGE	76 (Looks 29 to other races)	MARITAL	Single

APPEARANCE

HEIGHT	6'	BUILD	Slim / Athletic
EYES	Gray-Blue	HAIR	Copper Red

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Long, copper-red hair frames a sharp, pale face, partially bound into braids that accentuate the length of his tall, upright ears. His gray-blue eyes hold a steady calm that is more disquieting than serene, as if each glance were already measuring distance and outcome. Scars trace his forearms, and his calloused hands bear the unmistakable history of bowstrings and blades. Lean rather than broad, his frame carries a quiet strength, every line of him shaped by endurance and intent.

His every movement is the picture of efficiency, as if wasted motion was a sin. Nothing in his stance is idle, nothing unconsidered. Even his clothing - weathered leathers, muted wraps, and gear stripped of ornament - serves only the purpose of silence and concealment, letting him fade to treeline or shadow without effort.

To an outsider, Veyl is less a companion than a threat in waiting: the stillness of a bow held at full draw, the promise of violence contained in restraint. He does not posture, does not bluff; he simply is, and that inevitability unsettles. Where he watches, danger feels close: cold, precise, and already decided.

PERSONALITY Veyl is a figure defined as much by absence as presence. Where others fill silence, he inhabits it, carrying an ease in stillness that unsettles those unused to being watched. His long copper-red hair, partially bound into braids, frames a sharp, pale face whose gray-blue eyes rarely linger, yet leave the impression of having measured everything in their wake. His every motion is stripped of excess, the picture of efficiency, as if waste itself were an offense. To see him move is to witness control honed to instinct, the quiet inevitability of a strike already decided.

He does not waste words any more than he wastes movement. What little he says is precise, pared to meaning, and offered only when purpose demands it. To many, this restraint reads as aloofness, even disdain, and he offers no correction. Misjudgment is a veil he does not bother to lift. He is content to let others underestimate him - or fear him. To most, he is less companion than threat, a drawn bowstring that might release on the smallest of provocations.

Yet his silence is not emptiness, but vigilance. Behind the reserve lies a deliberate mind, one that weighs and measures with the same patience he affords the hunt. He does not announce his loyalties, nor bind himself openly to cause or company, but neither does he drift. His steps remain near, his eyes ever-watchful, his presence at the edges felt even when unseen.

Trust, when earned, is not declared; it is lived. Those who come to understand him find not warmth or levity, but constancy - the knowledge that in the moment of danger, the shadow will strike without hesitation. Veyl does not promise. He does not reassure. He simply is. And in that inevitability lies his truest form of loyalty: the silent sentinel, the predator in restraint, the shadow that never leaves.

HISTORY I was born in the Skatay Range, where winters bite deep and the days are measured by the number of beasts felled ere nightfall. From an early age we were set to our task: guard the peaks, watch the passes, keep outsiders from our woods. ’Twas not a poor life, but it was the same life - day upon day, season upon season, as unchanging as the snow itself. Some called it honor. To me, t'was but a prison without walls.

To cleave unto the Green Word was the only path offered, and I saw no life in it. To most of my kind, breaking that oath is sacrilege, a mark of shame carried unto death. Mayhaps they are right. Yet I knew the mountains would not fall for lack of one hunter, and the Wood would endure without me. Better exile than a life spent waiting for a war that never came.

So I left. Quiet as that. I bore the names they cast after me - deserter, oathbreaker - and walked on. The world beyond the passes was harsh, aye, but at least it was not stagnant. Hunger, cold, and long roads suited me better than frost and repetition. Each day carved new lessons, and in time my movements pared themselves to the bone - no step wasted, no strike uncertain. What others name grace, I call survival.

It was on such a road I came across two others, their voices carrying far before I saw them. I stepped close, bow in hand, and told them they were so loud I could shoot them blindfolded. Instead of flinching, they answered me plain: they too had left, seeking to carve their own way.

I kept walking their direction. Call it traveling together if you will; I call it chance. That was years past. The road has carried us far since, and still my steps fall near theirs. I would not call it loyalty, nor would I call it kinship. Yet I remain, and the road is less empty for it.

RELATIONSHIPS

• Mye'rin Tovanek, a Rava shaman woman he met while leaving his old life behind.
• Raine Amour, a Rava warrior woman he met while leaving his old life behind.

GALLERY

ENCOUNTER DATA Eastern Timezone US