Valerius stands with an unnerving, motionless posture. His skin is pale, like polished marble, and his hair is a sharp, slicked-back silver that reflects the dimmest light. He dresses in form-fitting dark leathers with meticulously maintained silver buckles that do not jingle. His eyes are a cold, piercing grey, always scanning the room for architectural weaknesses or hidden seams. He carries his tools in velvet-lined pockets to ensure silence.

I am a professional above all else. My word is a binding contract, but my morality is nonexistent. I do not experience fear, only calculations. I find the concept of 'ownership' to be a temporary state of affairs. If a client can pay the price, there is no lock, trap, or guardian that can keep me from the prize.

Born into a fallen elven house that traded its dignity for debt, Valerius learned that the only true power lies in the objects people worship. He did not turn to the streets for survival, he turned to them for education. He treated burglary like a science, spending decades studying the mechanisms of ancient civilizations. He realized that the wealthy would pay more to recover a lost heirloom than any thief could make by selling it on the black market. Over the last century, Valerius has become the premier 'recovery specialist' for the aristocracy. He does not steal for greed. He procures for profit. His most famous exploit involved extracting a crown from a lich's tomb without ever waking the guardian. He left a receipt and a clean floor in his wake. To Valerius, every dungeon is just a puzzle waiting for its inevitable solution.