Drazhen Salt-Scale
Fighter 11, Champion
Drazhen Salt-Scale
Species
Half-Dragon, Bronze Draconic Ancestry
Appearance
Drazhen is a broad-shouldered half-dragon whose bronze scales fade from warm copper along his brow to dull green near his ribs, each plate mottled with white brine-crust that glitters like ground glass in the cliff wind. He moves with the deliberate balance of someone walking a pitching deck, planting each foot before the next, while his heavy sea-hook traces slow arcs at his side. His presence fills a room before his voice does. Unexpectedly, for a soldier built like a gatehouse, he handles small objects with exquisite care, turning buckles, needles, and shell tokens between his claws as though they were fragile birds.
“His voice is low, weathered, and controlled, with a faint rasp like rope dragged over stone. He speaks slowly enough to be heard through wind, never raising his volume unless a launch is in danger.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
White salt deposits gather naturally along the edges of his scales and must be brushed away each morning.
His left horn is polished smooth from years of unconsciously pressing it against doorframes while reading manifests.
A brass spyglass is always clipped to his chest harness, even indoors and during combat.
His sea-hook has a small bell inside its hollow grip that rings only when the weapon is tilted toward the sea.
He smells faintly of lamp oil, wet stone, and crushed juniper.
Voice
“A low bronze rasp, measured and carrying, with the clipped authority of a harbor bell in heavy weather.”
Clothing
Heavy black leather oilskins hang over dark iron scale mail, their seams sealed with red wax and tar. His coat is fastened by oversized brass toggles stamped with the crossed beacon sigils of The Last Landing. A weather hood rests behind his neck, and his belt carries chalk, waxed cord, tide tablets, spare buckles, and a folding wind vane.
Body Language
Drazhen stands with his torso angled toward the nearest exit or launch platform, as if every room were a temporary station. His left thumb rubs the rim of his brass spyglass whenever he suspects deception. He rarely points with a finger, preferring the sea-hook's blunt curve, and when angered he becomes completely still except for the slow tightening of his jaw.
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