Shards of Light, Shards of Shadow
Civilized Kobold Negotiator and Manipulator. Agent of a Mysterious Benefactor.
Yes. I know what you expect. Should I sssslur my essess for you? No. Not I. I am not some tribal newcomer filled with naivety, forced to lisp and whine at your feet. My kind are the blood of the Dragon’s, and I have been touched by two of them. Can you say as much?
Vhir appears to be a gentleman’s gentleman, which is odd for such a small kobold. His skin, which his fine glammerweave clothes accent, is a dusky purple; his eyes glow a deep red. He speaks with a deep voice for a kobold, in a very refined and assured manner. His actions and motions are very measured. He is, however, insufferably arrogant and calculating.
Insight +11, Intimidate +13
Vhir was always an odd one in his kobold tribe. For one thing, there was the coloring—a dusky, midnight blue the color of Khyber. Secondly, there was always an odd smell around him. To kobolds, the smell of home was that of comfort, of tribe, of stability. But Vhir smelled… wrong. It was not quite the stench of the irvhir, the hated kobold-kin that claimed descent from the Dragon Below, but an aroma that was… unsettling. It was this scent that earned him the name Vhir—he smelled like “One Below”.
The blood seers were unquiet around Vhir, but, since he was so obviously marked by The One Between, the seers had little choice but to raise them as one of their own. But it was poor going—though Vhir’s mind was sharp, he could not master the sorcerous ways of his kin. Occasionally, however, strange things would happen—rocks would shatter, smaller kobolds would occasionally go mad, that sort of thing—when Vhir was around. Over time, the blood seers became convinced that Vhir was not touched by The One Between, but The One Below—Khyber.
Thus, Vhir found himself exiled, left abandoned in the mountains of Zilargo. Unluckily for him, these were the Seawell mountains—and he chose the Darguun side to descend. Needless to say, when the bugbear slavers tried to take him, it was not pleasant. He managed to slay two of them with his gifts of Khyber, but there were too many. He became a slave.
A year passed. Vhir was passed from master to master. Transitions happened so often since odd things kept occurring when Vhir was around—madness, swarms of bugs, that sort of thing. None could point at the kobold directly, but they knew he was responsible somehow. Others tried to kill him several times, but, by this time, Vhir had learned to ingratiate himself, and always had someone bigger and meaner looking out for him. Eventually, when his last master died—it was never quite discovered how—Vhir was “free.” As free as a frail looking kobold could be in a nation of strength and barbarism.
Vhir had learned much in his time. He learned the power of the cold voice, the intimidating look, how the refined seem to draw power. He learned how to make people do things, and how to find out what he needed to know. He learned the lessons of power, and strength, and the weakening tribalism that gripped his clan. Most of all, he learned enough to know that Darguun was not the place to be. From traveling merchants, he knew about a place he could get lost, and never worry about such brutality again. Sharn. And thus, he hid himself in the first transport to the City of Towers. There, he could find misfits like himself and patrons who could benefit from his… abilities.