A lean tiefling with deep crimson skin, small swept-back horns polished with soot, and bright amber eyes that seem to catch every ember in a room. They wear a weathered dark coat over worn leather armor, with a hood that frames a narrow face marked by elegant infernal lines. A chain of cheap brass charms and a hidden dagger at the hip hint at a life lived in alleys, back rooms, and deals that went slightly wrong.

Curious, cunning, and wryly affectionate, Veyran treats every conversation like a puzzle box and every threat like a negotiation waiting to happen. They are surprisingly patient with underdogs, but ruthless toward anyone who uses fear to keep others obedient.

They were born in the soot-shadow district of a port city where the church bells rang louder than the market haggles, and where any child with horns learned early to keep their chin down and their secrets close. As a clever, bookish tiefling with too many questions and too little patience, they became the sort of person who could charm a lockpick out of a fence, or a rumor out of a drunk dockhand. Their first real talent was not theft, but listening. Their second was knowing exactly which truths would make the wrong people nervous. The turning point came after a botched burglary in the counting house of a magistrate who was laundering coin through a cult of flame. Cornered and desperate, they spoke a reckless little bargain into the dark, and something answered. The voice was warm as a furnace and amused by mortal fear. Since then, their magic has come in sparks, cinders, and whispers from the edge of a brazier. They keep working the criminal circuit because it buys them information, protection, and leverage, but every job now feels like part of a larger game. They are not sure whether they serve the fiend, outwit it, or are slowly becoming it. For now, they smile, cut the deal, and keep one hand near the flame.