Clink Coal-Spike
Rogue, Thief
Clink Coal-Spike
Species
Cinderclaw, Tunnel-Runner
Appearance
Clink Coal-Spike is a compact ash-grey cinderclaw with a long torso, spring-loaded legs, and a tail that curls tightly whenever he is thinking. His scales have a dry, pumice-like texture along the shoulders and a faint oily sheen around the throat, where heat gathers beneath them. He moves with startling speed, skittering sideways around obstacles before most people realize he has shifted. His snout is blunt and expressive, with two small nostrils that flare before he speaks. The unexpected detail is his immaculate grooming. Beneath the soot, every scale along his jaw has been polished, and his short black crest is combed into a precise ridge, even after a twelve-hour infirmary shift. He smells faintly of boiled linen, lamp oil, and crushed bitterroot.
“Quick, hushed, and practical, with a faint rasp like a match striking stone. He pauses before names, especially the names of the dead, then speaks them clearly.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
His polished jaw scales remain clean beneath the soot and catch the forge light like dull ceramic.
He carries a string of numbered brass tags, one for every patient whose death was omitted or falsified in an official ledger.
His tail curls into a tight question-mark shape whenever he hears a name he does not trust.
He pauses to smell metal tools before using them, claiming that rust and poison have different scents.
His lower apron pocket is stitched shut from the outside, yet he can reach it through a hidden opening near his hip.
Voice
“A bright, rapid rasp with a dry clicking undertone. He sounds cheerful when frightened and solemn only when speaking a patient’s name.”
Clothing
A blood-stained linen apron hangs over fitted dark leather armor. The apron has been patched with mismatched thread and bears faded blue marks used by the Trench Union. His pockets bulge with bandage rolls, poultices, bone needles, folded political pamphlets, chalk, lockpicks, and small ampoules of coal-black smoke. He wears soft climbing shoes with brass toe caps and a battered tool belt hidden beneath the apron.
Body Language
Clink keeps his weight forward on the balls of his feet, as if every conversation might become a sprint. His claws tap twice against his thigh before difficult answers. He leans close when listening to frightened people, but retreats half a step from anyone wearing a provost insignia. When angry, he becomes perfectly still except for the slow tightening of his tail.
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