A small, russet-scaled kobold with a narrow muzzle and alert amber eyes. Visk keeps their dark crest combed into a neat, glossy ridge, and wears a carefully patched ochre monk's robe with the sleeves tied back. Their thumb repeatedly checks the little brass clasp at their collar, even when it is plainly fastened.

Cheerful, watchful, and more generous than they let on, Visk treats every new acquaintance as both a possible friend and a possible audience. They love a neat performance, but are quietly impressed by people who do not need one.

Visk grew up in a cramped burrow beneath a toll road, where larger folk rarely looked down unless they had dropped something. They learned to make themselves useful by becoming whoever a traveler expected to see: a courier with a sealed note, a shrine attendant with a practiced bow, a harmless little guide who knew the dry path through the marsh. Their best teacher was Sella, a caravan dresser who taught Visk how to sew a false hem and how to watch a person's hands when their mouth was lying. When a scheme went bad, Visk slipped away with a robe, a disguise kit, and the habit of checking every clasp twice. At a roadside shrine called the Bent Step, Visk met Thenn, a quiet pilgrim who practiced striking and breathing in the courtyard before dawn. Visk copied the movements at first to amuse themself, then discovered that patience and balance made better tools than a dozen borrowed identities. They left before Thenn could ask them to stay, carrying a shortsword, a handful of darts, and the belief that a body can tell the truth even when its owner will not. Now Visk drifts between settlements, taking small cons when hungry and offering honest help when it surprises them. They are still deciding which kind of life is the disguise.