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The scent of sandalwood and ink heralds his arrival, curated to command attention. His pale skin, untouched by toil, contrasts with the sleek, jet-black hair swept back to frame a perpetually arched brow. Emerald-green eyes, sharp and calculating, gleam with the promise of a deal—or a betrayal. A thin, sardonic smirk curls his lips, barely masking his contempt for those he deems unworthy.
Tall and lean, Wilson glides with a rogue’s grace, his tailored velvet doublet—deep indigo with silver threading—clinging to his frame, its high collar showcasing a sapphire-encrusted brooch. A flowing cloak, black with crimson silk lining, swirls dramatically, its clasp a relic pilfered from a forgotten vault. At his belt, a polished leather satchel, crafted by a Caernivale tanner, brims with forged seals, lockpicks, and vials of subtle poisons, each tool polished to a rogue’s precision. A slender rapier, its hilt studded with onyx, hangs at his hip, more a mark of status than a weapon, though its blade has drawn blood. A signet ring, lifted from a fallen merchant lord, glows with a faint ruby hue, sharpening his persuasive charm. Concealed beneath his sleeves, enchanted bracers from a black-market auction shimmer with protective runes, deflecting steel and sorcery.
His voice, smooth as polished stone, carries a clipped, aristocratic drawl, each word a calculated performance. A wide-brimmed hat, adorned with a single raven feather, crowns his head, tilted to exude confidence. Beneath his doublet, a silk shirt, crisp white with gold-threaded cuffs, peeks out. Polished leather boots, enchanted to silence his steps, gleam with spelled buckles. A small ledger, bound in centaur skin and tucked into his satchel, pulses with a golden glow, recording every deal and debt in a cipher only he can crack.
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