Vrashkyn Emberscale

Vrashkyn stands like a monument someone forgot to finish carving—all sharp angles and unfinished business. His scales run the deep red of banked coals, darkening to near-black along his spine and forearms where old burns from his own breath weapon have scarred the keratin into a cracked, ashy texture. A ridge of blunted horns sweeps back from his brow, one snapped short in a fight he won't discuss. He wears his rage openly even at rest: nostrils flaring faintly with each breath, wisps of heat-shimmer rising off his shoulders on cold mornings. His armor is a patchwork of boiled leather and salvaged chain, deliberately left open at the chest to display a brand scorched there by his own claws during his Rite of Fire.