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Vessrin Hollow is a figure of whispered rumors and hushed conversations in Newhaven and beyond, a name spoken only when absolutely necessary, with a wary glance toward the shadows. Towering at an unnerving seven feet tall, Vessrin's gaunt, wiry frame moves with a quiet, predatory grace that belies his thin and fragile appearance. His sallow, mottled skin stretches too tightly over his bones, giving his angular face a skeletal quality. Deep, black hollows rim his lifeless, sunken eyes, which gleam faintly with an unnatural light when the shadows deepen around him. His long, black hair hangs in stringy, tangled clumps over his face and shoulders, partially obscuring his twisted, uneven smile that reveals broken, yellowed teeth, teeth that look as if they've been worn down from gnawing on something far more substantial than food.
What makes Vessrin truly unsettling, however, is not his appearance, it's the way he appears. He emerges from the mist precisely when and where he is most needed, often at the crossroads of fate. Adventurers lost in the deep woods, desperate refugees seeking aid, or mercenaries licking their wounds after a hard-fought battle, Vessrin is there, standing at the edge of sight, his thin frame partially concealed by swirling fog. He rarely announces his presence; more often than not, his arrival is heralded only by the sudden drop in temperature and the oppressive weight of silence that follows.
He speaks softly, his gravelly voice carrying a deliberate, measured cadence that commands uneasy attention. His dark eyes seem to pierce straight through to the soul, weighing intentions, secrets, and hidden desires with unsettling precision. Those who meet his gaze often look away, feeling as though he has seen them in ways even they do not fully understand.
Vessrin deals in rare and powerful items, artifacts of shadow, ancient relics steeped in forgotten magic, and cursed trinkets that seem to whisper when held. His goods are impossibly diverse, and there is no logical explanation for how he acquires them. He buys items at high prices, especially those infused with magic or tied to darkness. Weapons from haunted battlefields, jewelry recovered from cursed crypts, and even spell scrolls etched in the lost tongues of the Abyss, all find their way into his possession.
The wares Vessrin offers are often not what they seem. A seemingly simple ring might provide the wearer with enhanced speed, but at the cost of restless nightmares. A finely forged sword could grant its wielder unmatched strength, while slowly siphoning away their life force. Despite this, adventurers still seek him out, drawn by the promise of power and forbidden knowledge.
Vessrin's payment is never straightforward. Gold suffices in some cases, but more often than not, he asks for something more elusive, a favor to be called upon at a future date, a memory, or a drop of blood. Some claim that those who bargain with Vessrin wake to find part of themselves missing, a memory, a talent, or even the warmth of their soul.
At Vessrin's side hangs a weapon as ominous as its owner, a curved, black iron sabre with wickedly sharp edges. The weapon pulses faintly with crimson veins of light, which seem to slither across the surface of the blade like living tendrils. Those who have seen it drawn say it hums softly, like the sound of distant screaming beneath the surface of reality. The blade is unnaturally cold, and those struck by it report a terrible emptiness creeping into their veins, as if the sword is feeding on them.
Vessrin never speaks of the weapon, nor does he offer it for trade. It is said that the sabre is not forged of any metal known to this world, that it was drawn from the depths of the Void itself, a fragment of unbeing shaped into a weapon. When asked about it, Vessrin's thin smile stretches just a little too wide, and his dead eyes glitter with quiet amusement.
Though Vessrin never raises his hand in open hostility, there is an unsettling finality to the consequences of crossing him. Those foolish enough to attack him find that their weapons falter mid-strike, their strength drained by the oppressive chill that surrounds him. When harmed, Vessrin simply fades into the mist, leaving behind only the bitter chill of his presence and the disquieting feeling that he is still watching from just beyond the veil of reality. He always returns, though, when the need for trade arises.
Those who have witnessed his disappearance speak of shadows curling around his form like living smoke before he dissolves entirely, his dead eyes lingering for just a moment longer than the rest of him. Despite his mysterious nature, Vessrin is not seen as a threat, at least, not openly. He has aided adventurers in the past, providing critical information or crucial supplies at pivotal moments. Yet few believe his assistance comes without consequence.
Vessrin's motives remain opaque. He serves no known power, swears no allegiance to any crown or kingdom. The only constant is his unsettling presence, and the lingering sense that the balance of fate itself shifts subtly whenever he enters the fray. Although he looks "Human" some believe he is a fae of the winter court, a creature of the Void, a servant of forgotten gods, or perhaps something far more dangerous, something that walks the edge of existence, offering power to those brave or foolish enough to reach for it. Whatever he is he will never tell.
Despite the dangers, many still seek Vessrin out, drawn by the allure of his wares and the promise of forbidden knowledge. His terms are rarely fair, but power, true power, never comes without a cost. And Vessrin is more than happy to make the trade.
When asked why he trades with mortals at all, Vessrin's smile widens.