Dragonfang Lancer

While other owlkin drilled with blade and bow, Ryn stood in the shadows and studied every stance, every strike, every mistake. She watched wolves hunt, hawks dive, and how the wind moved through the branches before a storm.

In her first real fight, she took a blow from a staff across her ribs. But after it landed, something clicked. She saw the rhythm of her opponent's movements and slipped past strikes that should have connected. The owlkin who'd hit her never touched her again.

Years later, she found a fallen drake at the forest's edge, its scales still warm. She tore a fang from its maw and lashed it to her lance with cord.

The weapon came alive in her grip, thrumming with draconic heat and hunger.

The dragonfang gave her more than fire. In battle, it devours techniques the way flames devour deadwood. A mercenary's killing stroke, a mage's ward, an archer's impossible shot. The lance drinks them in. Ryn's body remembers. What her enemies know, she learns. What they mastered, she understands.

When Mahkah Hemlig started tearing up the Broken Lands, Ryn joined the fellowship without hesitation. Let the conclave bring their sorcerers and sellswords. She'll watch. She'll learn.

And when she strikes, it'll be with everything they thought belonged only to them.