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Clement Fiddleford
There are quite a few who stand taller than Clement, though the pure dignity with which he carries himself lends to his mien. The gentleman’s gait as he strolls along may provide reassurance that dimly lit back alleys and underhanded deals aren’t for him, but there’s something to be said about perception.

A sprig of greenish-white starburst flowers can be seen in the brim of his tricorn hat and a whorl of wayward flaxen hair peeks out at his brow. A black, waist length mantle with silver buttons down the front clothes his sturdy shoulders, hiding away all but the leather breeches he wears and the dutifully crafted leather knee boots he’s tucked them into. A right neighborly smile frequents his averagely handsome face and reveals a dimple on his left cheek when fully formed. The world is around him is viewed through rose-colored glasses, the frame of which sits upon the hooked bridge of his nose.

Underneath his square, clean-shaven chin dangles a dark, leather mask structured after a carrion bird’s beak. If properly fitted, it would protect only his nose and mouth - his eyes left protected by his glasses. An aromatic air filled with mint, cloves, straw, rose petals, and undertones of the medicinal follows him.

It isn’t the head to toe donning of black that adulterates his seemingly kind demeanor; yet when viewed fully shrouded and masked during low light, he could very well be mistaken for the boogeyman.

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