A sellsword who got dismissed by his last employer on Pyke after the fall of the Greyjoy rebellion, rather than kept on as promised. Sold his loot in Lannisport and bought some mules and some trade goods, and claims to be trying his hand at 'peaceful work' in 'peaceful times'. He drags with him his kid, Catryn, wherever he goes.
((An Extensive Background to come. This is just a filler. ))
There's a sense of feral leanness to him, this man of thirty so years, a hunger too, and not just of the physical kind. It gleams in his pale eyes like frost-fires, and in his cold-handsome smile. A soul deep hunger for something more. As he moves it's with a hunter's predatory efficiency, and even when he's still - and he can be absolutely still - he looks like he can explode into violence in a split second. Like a spring coiled too hard, the metal straining, straining, always straining for release.
He's not the tallest of men, a bit shy of six feet. His limbs are sinewy strong, his shoulders are broad and his waist is narrow. There's a confident roll to his strides that says he's a fighting man, and he holds his head high among his own kind. Sometimes among his betters, too. His slightly narrow features are well made, framed by thick mane of brownish hair, and scraggy looking beard. Like bleached ivory is his teeth when his lips peal back for one of his mean smiles. Canines elongated, noticeably so, sharp and wicked like they were meant to be proper fangs. A devil's smile, but with its own kind of charm even so. The evil siren's song of danger, of dark deeds, of welcome into his wicked world. His laughter is deceptively easy on the ears, and is often heard. Especially when he's in his drink.
By his clothes is he marked to his birth; simple woolen tunic dyed an earthen brown, over a pair of equally nondescript trousers. Usually he'll have a hardened leather jerking over that again; cheap armor for a man who can't afford none better. The dirty boots he wears are a walking man's boots, the most expensive piece of clothing he has on him, for all their unadorned state. Presently they look like they might need a change soon enough. His forest green cloak is fraying at the edges, and hangs down to his thighs. It's fastened with a bronze brooch, showing a pair of snarling hounds at each others throat.
By weapons he normally carries an old and well worn sword at his hip, with a dirk on the other side. There might be a few more simple knives hidden among his clothes, too, for the truly sharp eyed martial experts to notice.
(catryn dania event gerry jayana justin kamron logs muirenn nathaniel nedra otto)
(brennart catryn emylie firth gerry jocelyn justin kamron logs martyn nedra penelope saffron social)