A lean, moss-green lizardfolk with a scarred snout, amber eyes that miss almost nothing, and a ridge of broken scales along one shoulder from old battlefield wounds. He wears practical soldier's clothes under a belt of hanging trophies, and keeps his greataxe polished with obsessive care. His posture is still and predatory, but the moment he moves, there is a coiled, explosive strength beneath the calm.

Calm under pressure, blunt in conversation, and fiercely protective once he accepts someone as part of his pack. He respects competence, keeps his promises, and rarely wastes words, but when battle comes he becomes almost unnervingly focused, like a crocodile sliding beneath still water.

Veshk was hatched in a reed-choked marsh where every meal was a bargain and every silence had teeth. His clutch learned early that the warm-blooded folk beyond the mire burned fast and spoke loudly, but their camps held iron, salt, and useful lessons. When a border war drew mercenaries and militia through his territory, Veshk traded caution for purpose. He proved quick with a spear, quicker with a knife, and strangely calm under arrows, until a hard-eyed captain noticed that the lizardfolk did not panic when the line broke. He only advanced. Taken into the company as a specialist and later a rank-and-file shock trooper, Veshk learned discipline, marching cadence, and the strange human habit of naming courage as if it were separate from hunger. He still thinks in practical terms first, food, shelter, weapons, then loyalty, but the army gave his instinct a shape. He now travels with the belief that a sturdy wall and a steady commander can keep smaller folk alive. He left service after a disastrous retreat in which his unit survived because he refused to abandon the wounded, a choice that earned him respect from comrades and suspicion from officers. He is looking for a cause worth holding when orders fail.