To the people of Ashkarin, Nalthra Veylan is a fixture—like a stormcloud you can see from afar and quietly pray doesn’t notice you. She is not cruel, nor unjust, but she is unshakably poised and always, always watching.
Slender and regal in bearing, with pale olive skin and silver-threaded black hair coiled into immaculate knots, Nalthra moves through the artisan quarter like a queen without a crown. Her eyes—faintly violet, thanks to a forgotten alchemical tincture—miss nothing. She rarely raises her voice, but when she does, people find themselves apologizing before she finishes speaking.
She dresses in layered silks and muted gemstones, elegant without ostentation. Her jewelry, naturally, is exquisite—each piece both beautiful and functional, enchanted to ward off theft, curses, or lies. Her voice is low and precise, her words like surgical blades—never wasted, often sharp, always controlled.
Locals say her smile is rarer than a clean day in Draxigar. Those who do earn it remember it for weeks.
Most people respect her, a few fear her, and almost none truly know her. Rumors abound: that she once turned a thief to stone with a whisper; that her mirrors show your true soul; that she has clients among dragons and dead kings.
But the consensus is this:
If you deal fair, Nalthra deals fairer.
If you lie, you best not breathe again in Ashkarin.