| Greyhem DurSheen | |
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A lithe figure walks into view with a grace known to those accustomed to battle. A smooth gait hindered slightly by a stiff left leg. His silvery hair hangs braided and bound with leather stips, swinging loosely at the small of his back. However, three small braids dangle to the right of his face. Each braid ending in a single metallic, onyx colored bead. Secured to the bottom of the innermost braid is a crimson blossom. The blossom’s pedals are singed along the outer edges, decreasing their overall length by a quarter. The color of his eyes are in stark contrast to his hair. Eyes matching the color of the beads in his hair, with flecks of crimson, are slightly tilted up. His gaze is sharp, yet at a closer inspection, there exists a hollowness, as if something was lost. The small lines at the corner of his eyes hint of past pains. His fu manchu dangles about a hand's length below his chin, with a bead, matching those in his hair, hanging at the ends. A harrowing scar can be glimpsed encircling his neck behind a turned up collar and a Silver Chunk Necklace. He unconsciously brushes his hair out of his face with his right hand. The index and middle fingers on that hand have faded ink stains that hint at a past of prolonged use of ink and quill. His Sacred Ring of Light encircling the base of his middle finger, shined with its own radiance. That same hand taps an ink stained satchel at his waist, unconsciously confirming that its contents are still there. You see the impression of an ink well contained in the pouch, as well as the end of a feather quill poking out of the opening. His pack is well made, yet bears the signs of rough travels. He wears his armor and weapons with a comfort acquired from long time use. His clothes, like his pack, are well made and showing signs of extensive travel. The left sleeve of his shirt is neatly folded up and sewn closed near his shoulder, where an arm should be attached. The cut of his clothes, in combination with his Holy Ring, mark him plainly as a cleric. As he walks by, you hear him muttering to himself softly in a deep baritone. His aura initially gives the impression of a cold and detached feel of a coiled spring on the verge of action, muscles tensed…ready to react instantly to an unknown threat... |
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