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About Dracian of Messantia

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  1. By the time the vessel was out of the port the two young women knew more about sailing than they ever thought they would. The Northerner's strength combined with the Argossian's experience with the help of the two... slaves(?), set them on a course for 'as-far-from-here-as-possibble' in an impressive span of time. Sea spray and salt-scent dominated their senses as the high winds of the great Western Sea welcomed them with its endless wonders and call for adventure. Catrin, the tawny-haired Gunderland girl seemed to have some skill with blade and bow, lessons from her father out of necessity, she claimed. Given their fealty to Aquilonia and often serving as its infantry in times of war, nearly all Gundermen knew a bit about handling weapons, although hr finest quality seemed to be the never ending litany of curses and choice appraisals she felt everyone in earshot needed to be privy to. Death was preferable to slavery to a Gunderman, and Dracian feared that, if given a blade, she may try to take her own life than be handed back to the Northerner the moment she stepped off the boat. Still, he simply informed her that her life was her own, and welcomed her to pick up any steel she chose. The Ophiran girl, Chiara, was another matter entirely. The spoiled Ophiran claimed to be part of some nobility or another, and while she didn't display any outward arrogance befitting her proclaimed station, her absolute ineptitude and lack of enthusiasm for anything that might lead one to callouses in due time seemed antithesis to her very nature. The girl could barely butter her own bread, let alone place steel in the gut of someone who deserved it... or didn't. After a few days at sea it was almost comical trying to watch the girl manage herself with the day-to-days of keeping a ship on course, bellies fed and all the usual maintenance that usually required more of a crew than what they had at the moment. By the third night out they'd weathered their first storm. The waves tossed the small cog about as the winds slapped drops of rain again the skin like a volley after volley of arrows against their skin. Although tall and he lumbered like a giant, the great strength of the Northerner proved to be worth that of four average men as he secured the rigging and kept the sails from shredding in the wind and lightning. Between Dracian barking orders that kept them all alive, Eingar's strength and tenacity and the ladies' will to not join the depths and what lurk there... along with Catrin's colorful language, the ship floated once more on calm waters as the warm sun did it's best to dry the shimmering, soaked decks of the ship. The four were simply sitting there, soaking wet and tired beyond measure before they settled in for some rest. It was then that Dracian pondered that they might just have a chance at succeeding... it was a motley crew, but they had spirit... even the Ophiran girl didn't quit, doing anything and everything she could, including getting in the way a lot, but she didn't run below deck and wait it out. That was worth something b his count. It was past mid-day on the fourth day, their bearing was still southwest, a ways past the Baracha Isles, but not too far. Dracian claimed there was an island out there, past them, that was an ancient and dark place that once belonged to a civilization that no longer walked the earth. An ancient outpost the bastard Bithulimon had adopted and stored his plundered treasures and corralled his slaves before deciding which ones he'd offer up to market and which would be kept for his own unholy appetites. The ladies' had sheared their the dresses they were wearing on the night of their capture down to something that permitted more mobility, slitting them down the middle and stitching them into makeshift breeches. They'd not found a pair of sandals or pattens their size among the numerous men's belongings, and had remained barefoot the last several days. Chiara had been tasked to polishing the weapons, all of them, as it seemed to be the only thing she could accomplish without royally causing a mess of it. She wasn't much of a talker, in fact, she'd barely said much aside from her small introduction a few days past and the occasional apology for making a mess. Catrin was re-securing everything, both above and below deck, as the storm had set nearly everything adrift. Simeon came out into the sun, shielding his eyes from its rays for a moment before approaching the two men near the helm who were discussing Bithulimon and his long list of crimes against decent folk. "Her fever has subsided, but the wound was deep, caught a mild infection but she's a strong one. She'll live, she'll scar, but before that, she'll need time to heal. I don't think she'll be of much assistance to you in rescuing her people." Chiara was admiring a dagger and took a very clumsy, downward practice swing. The dagger slipped from her grasp and stuck in the floor boards of the ship between her feet, almost claiming one of her toes. She skipped backward, sheepishly, embarrassed in the hopes that no one had just witnessed that, then struggled to remove the blade from where the ship had taken ownership. It gave way suddenly and she fell back into her seat with a startled shriek as the three men looked at her, completely baffled as to how she'd made this far in life. "What?" was all she could muster as an explanation. "Sure know how to pick them Eingar," Dracian smirked. "Bed her and she's likely to break it off on accident." Simeon snickered as the poor Ophiran girl's incompetence had reached neigh legendary status in only a few short days. "So, it looks like it's just us three then? Figure these two will need to stay and watch Freya." "And how do you know they won't take the ship while we're away?" Simeon asked. "Well, one, Freya would kill them herself. These are her people, after all. And, I'm taking the rudder pin with us." Dracian smiled wide. The old man, haggard from tending to Freya for the last several hours, sneered at the young Messantian. "That's a right bastard thing to do, boy." The young man spread his arms wide, shrugging. "Uh, pirate." He said and both an explanation and justification. "W-weapons are done, Captain." The young girl spoke up over the lull in the conversation. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her, she didn't even raise her head to meet any of their eyes. "I'll be putting them away now." She turned and walked off to collect the few swords, axes and assorted blades left by its previous owners. "Poor girl is scared near to breathless," Simeon observed. "No doubt waiting for one of you two fools to be bored with her and cast her overboard." "I would never," stated the captain flatly. "Well, she doesn't know that," the wizened sage glowered at them both, keeping their conversation to harsh whispers. "Either of you two bothered to talk to them, ease their fears? Or were y'two too wrapped in playing in pirates in order to tend to the needs of your crew, as near as I can tell," he nodded to Eingar. "You're as close to a first mate as this ship has." Dracian scanned Eingar, sizing him up. "Second, third and fourth mate, too." He appraised with a grin. "But, you've a point. We have been doing a lot of, oh, what's the term... ah, yes, 'keeping everyone from drowning', the last few days that there hasn't been much time for conversation. We'll take your observation under advisement, you know, while we're keeping everyone from drowning. But, allaying their fears is certainly not a bad idea. Hard to do though when Eingar still thinks they're his..." he glared at the Northerner like everything was all his fault. "He's not the most pleasant of sorts." "Well, she did drop a shield on his foot," Simeon pointed out. "That was an accident," Dracian broke eye contact and looked suspiciously from left to right, pondering an answer. Confidently he nodded. "I think." They both turned to look at the giant northerner, who barely fit below deck, like he was nominated to be the one to go set the young maiden's fears to rest.
  2. "From her perspective, you almost just killed her, Northerner." He placed his hand on the large man's wrist that was holding the woman, getting his attention. "Let her not trade one monster for another." He stepped away, scooping up the merchant's coin pouch and tossed it to the dock official. The portly man caught it with a jingle. "Here, this should cover any bribes. We'll dump the bodies further out, and may none of us speak of this ever again." He pointed his scimitar in the official's direction. "Best deal you're going to get. What say you?" There were no words, just a not and the jingle of coins as the large man 'ran' away and down the docks. "We have eight," he cocked his head, still watching the offical shuffle away in a panic. "Twelve minutes at the most. Let's get going." He looked at the large northerner. "Are you coming or staying, giant? That man will have many guards with him and while you may fare well, I fear your new friends," his gaze set upon the two women. "May not. Only two things you need to know: First, we're all about to sail to a dark isle and die horribly at the hands of a demon cannibal. Second, every man or woman on my ship is their own. You want to own a life? Buy a horse. If it's thanks you want from those two, perhaps try a bit of charm." It already appeared the young rogue possessed a soft spot for damsels in distress (which made his choice in ships to steal a bit clearer) and an aversion to slavery. "Dracian, of Messantia, by the way." "She's losing a lot of blood," Simeon said calmly, helping Freya move by providing her a means of supporting some of her weight. "The arrow bit deep." Dracian nodded. "Take her below, I'll get us ready to leave." He turned to the large, blond man. "The woman is Freya. Simeon I suppose you know already."
  3. From where they hunkered down to avoid the volley of arrows, the two Northerners prepared for their charge on the deck. A solid *thunk* echoed across the chaotic, yet relatively quiet battlefield. Slave-trading in Zingara was not frowned upon, but smuggling them in without paying the appropriate taxes or using them as to bribe an official, was. As far as dock-side ruckuses went, so far, this one had been handled quietly... as neither the The volley of arrows raining down on their cover suddenly ceased as the creaking of the boom swinging around and knocking the archers either off balance or into the water drew the Northerner's attention from cover. The only two archers that were left took aim until a swiftly blood-soaked shaft thunked into the deck of the ship, having pierced one of them through the upper part of his calf and the the archer next to him pierced through his lower calf, pinning them both to the deck. As they both instinctively moved from the pain, they only caused their pinned neighbor pain as well, and the cycle seemed endless. "Ha!" Simeon, laughed aloud. "Y'still got it boy! Well done." The thief hopped down from the shipping crates he'd used for elevation, sliding the bow over his shoulder. "I was aiming for his chest," he said in reference to one of the men now pinned to the deck. "And stop shouting, I'm still hung over." "Bah," the old alchemist scoffed while tossing a small vial up to the deck of the shit where the tow men were struggling, painfully to pull the arrow from the ship's deck. It shattered with a soft jingle of glass releasing a vapor that swiftly put the two men to sleep once they inhaled the fumes. Both the men approached, joining the two Northerners, as they closed in on the captain of the vessel and the dock official. The official didn't seem to want any more part of this evening's affairs, but couldn't get past the four blocking his escape. One of the slave girls was crouched behind a collection of barrels, fearful that moving would mean her life. The captain, on the other hand, still seemed to be struggling for some semblance of control in his unfortunate situation. "Don't know who you are," he growled. The glimmering steel edge of his dagger was already drawing rivulets of blood from the second slave girl's throat. "But another step and 'your prize' is soaking the docks." "Ugh," Dracian groaned. He'd pulled one of his slender curved blades from its scabbard. "By Bel's itchy small clothes, why is it always dagger-to-the-throat negotiations? You realize that she is the only thing keeping you alive? Not keeping us at bay. Besides..." he pointed to the barrel. "There's another one right there. The big guy can have her, we'll take your ship, spare your life so that you can swear revenge on us and no one needs to get hurt. Let her go, she's really not saving your life at all right now, in fact, look at the mountain, he's practically seething for an excuse to end you." Simeon slapped the thief's arm. "You call that negations, boy?" "No!" Dracian laughed. "We're not negotiating. He's a dead man, one way or the other. He just needs to decide whether he dies tonight, or years from now, comfortably in his bed."
  4. "Well, I certainly can't kill that many men..." Dracian said matter-of-factly. "Although, I was not aware Siemon knew one of the northern mountains personally, crafty old fool." As she stormed away to do whatever it was she as going to do, the rogue smirked and began moving, opposite the ruckus on the docks and the direction all the men were currently facing. Sure, he didn't technically have a plan, but having a plan to come up with a plan while working within everyone else's plans? Well, that was positively genius. One day those around whould come to, hopefully, understand the lengths at which he went through for them. It wasn't everyday a man was willing to allow others to flex their cognitive abilities and muscles in the service of someone, or something greater. And id he ask for anything in return? No! He was ever the consummate giver. They were damn lucky to have him. He had no idea where Simeon had gone off too, or where he'd retrieved his northern frost giant from youngling from, but it was of little consequence. Freya had all the manners and intellect of a typical trousers on head northerner and the frost giant? Well, he wasn't too far off, plus he talked funny. If he was lucky those two would kill everyone and each other and he'd have a new ship and a lovely prize to help him break it in. With a wicked smirk, he disappeared into the shadows...
  5. Dracian gripped his head. "I require water, food and for the love of Bel stop pounding on things," Freya was unfamiliar with the name he intoned, but a small smirk bent to Simeon's lips. There would be only one reason he'd have for invoking the name of the god of thieves. Neither could deny, he looked like hell. "I considered your words, Freya. Wasn't much to do as I lay there in a puddle of my own piss and vomit. Allow me some time to make myself presentable, eat, and rinse the taste of bile from my throat... and we will have a vessel and provisions." "What about a crew?" Freya asked. "Not needed. The three of us can make the journey, and should we fail, I'll not be delivering more victims for that inhuman wretch. I shan't lie," he shrugged. It appeared he was too hungover, hungry, dehydrated and exhausted, to execute his typical bravado. "This time anyway. Capturing the ship will not be easy. It will be bloody, and loud, and a lot people will not be pleased... but oh, will it be glorious."
  6. Dracian was already plastered. Three sheets to the wind... was not enough sheets to come close to accurately describing how hard he'd hit the sauce that evening in the time they were waiting. "Oi!" The bartender approached Freya from his side of the counter. He waved Dracian away as he spoke. "Get this sorry sod out of 'ere an'on'is way! To d'street wiv'im!" Freya practically had to carry him, he could barely stand on his own. His face and beard and mustache were slick with alcohol and traces of other foul wafting aromas. He didn't put up much of a fight until she'd made it out side with him, mostly because she was pretty sure that's when he'd realized he was being moved. He could squirm well enough, even this drunk, and broke her hold on his tunic within a matter of moments by slipping out of it. She wasn't sure if it was by some thief design or just plain dumb luck that he fell right out of it. He stood up like a shot, wavering a bit to catch his balance. "No!" He shouted at her. He attempted a backhand but Freya didn't even have to move, his had flew past her nearly a foot off it's mark. "Only I know the way, and I'm never going back there!" He pushed Freya, hard. She didn't move, he did however. He threw himself backwards, literally pushing himself into the refuse of and trash piled up in the alleyway. "You don't know!" He scrambled to his feet, as best he could anyway. He managed more to scramble along the ground away from Freya than actually stand again. "None of you know! I've seen it. I've seen what he does to people. He's a monster, no, a demon!" Freya approached him and hoisted him up by his wrist, back to his feet. "For a year I sat in his cages! Watched as he butchered and tortured and... only I made it out...," his eyes met Freya's and she saw in him the eyes of a warrior. Even among her people the men and women would see terrible things that broke their resolve and shattered their spirits. There was no shame in fear, or failure. To live through it was the opportunity to set it right. Set themselves right. What this man had seen or done, it had broken him. "Only I made it out," he said to her, more softly and she saw the tears well up in his eyes. He collapsed into her chest, crying like the shattered man he was. He pounded a fist against her shoulder and she barely moved, the sound was akin to a hammer striking an oak. "...all of them. I left them there. My crew... I was their captain, and I left them to save myself." The sobbing came deeper as he used her for balance, occasionally striking her shoulder to punctuate how pathetic he'd become. Simeon only looked at Freya, shrugging sorrowfully with a mournful expression writ plain on his face. "I... I never knew. He never spoke of his time there."
  7. Dracian listened intently to her story, popping grapes and sipping from his cup as he enjoyed the meat and fruit Simeon paid good coin on so the thief could eat it all. Why do you always burn everyone's villages down? No wonder you can't get anything done up there, everyone's rebuilding all the blasted time." She shot him a scowl and he raised his hands in defeat, vowing silently that it would be the only time he interrupted her. At mention of the slaver's name, however, the warrioress saw the color drain from his face. Behind the veneer of jokes, quips, and ignorant care-free whimsy was a coward. She knew there was no shame in fear, all warriors in her country felt fear, faced fear, and laughed at fear as they simply did what needed to be done. She knew the fear in his eyes, it was the same she saw in the eyes of slave girls she'd encountered who were sold by her quarry to pirate havens all along the coast. It was not the fear of a man who gave lip service to another man's reputation or personal legend, it was the fear of a man who'd witnessed first had that reputation and escaped it. She knew right there in that moment: Dracian of Messantia was the man she was looking for. "I-I can not help you," he said, tripping on words that couldn't seem to pass his lips fast enough. "You're on your own. You court Death, Freya of Vanahien, he stood, so flustered and frightened by whatever was occurring in his mind that the deft coordination she'd seen him possess seemed to bleed away as he tripped of a shelf and stumbled towards the door. His exit was swift, but as graceful as a drunkard at last call. She went to pursue him but Simeon's hand grasped her arm. "Let him go." He said, releasing her arm as she scowled at him. "He'll not go far, never does. We all have demons, my dear. What you ask him to do is face his. I've known the boy since he was, well, a boy. He was a great sea captain once, pirate, corsair, whatever fancy title catches your fancy. He defied Bithulimon and a traitor on his crew turned him over to the slaver. He spent some time as his captive but doesn't speak of it, the year was a dark and bloody one. Of that I am certain. Give him an hour and he will be at the local tavern drinking himself stupid in an attempt to forget the treachery and nightmarish things he's seen." Simeon drank from his cup. "That is, if you still desire his help."
  8. Dracian waggled a finger, conceding the old man's logic. Then shrugged. "Well, okay, you got me there. Sanity and careful planning are certainly not my two most welcome of bedfellows, but I do sort of have a debt to pay, to the Northerner. You're more in touch with current events than I, what have you heard?" "Honestly, I've heard nothing. Your head was meant for the axe, but after your escape they've been relatively quiet as the man hunt for you continues." He sorted a few things on a shelf. "If hell bent you are on going back in there, I must admit, it'll be the last place they'd be looking for you. Guards would be light. All the prisoners are logged in the manifest. Capture that and it will tell you precisely who it is you're looking for." Dracian clapped his hand together, "Whelp, there you have it, Freya. Perchance you could tell me the full story before I break into a prison to rescue someone who may or not be there."
  9. "Hm," he stroked his chin in contemplation, petting the small soul patch-goatee he had going on. "Rewards are certainly motivation. However, luv, the only man fit for the headsman axe in Kordava within the week, was me. Granted it took me a few days to escape my cell," he looked at her while speaking and laughing at the same time. "I was really drunk." "While I'm loathe to enter that city again anytime soon, situations like these do merit fact checking." He sighed, a bit defeated at the notion of both rewards and walking away from such a fine bosom. "Ugh, very well, I know a man in Kordava. He may be of some help, I'll introduce you. Besides, breaking out was easy, breaking in will require a lot more work." We smiled wide. "...and explosives."
  10. "Excellent!" He accepted her hand and she pulled him to his feet with an ease he was not accustomed to from the women he was used to being in the company of. He brushed off the dust from his leisure spot. "Now, simply tell me who this man is and we shall set out to locate him. Does he owe you money? Please tell he didn't raid your village and your kill your family... I am so tired of hearing that one."
  11. "Correction," said the man in a thick accent. "A man you have found. Several, in fact. I remain the only survivor, also another fact. One for which I'm grateful for." He certainly liked to hear his own voice... He drank in her frame and casually as he swigged from his water skin. Fiery red hair, chiseled muscles, ample bosom... she knew exactly where his mind was. Men of the southern kingdoms were, by an large, morons and fools. Decadent men who lived lavishly in comfortable surroundings where nature provided for all their needs. They weren't hardened by the trials of everyday survival in the harsh cold of the winters of Vanahiem. In short, her kingdom bred real men, this man was just a scrawny conversation where he talked for hours, but said nothing. "I've friends in low places, my lovely," she noticed his eyes trail below her hips. "And I'm even friendlier in low places," he offered a devilish smirk. "Mayhaps I know of this man. OR could assist you in finding him? After all, I owe you for that assist. Hate to leave a debt unpaid..." She had a feeling that wasn't entirely true...
  12. The slender swordsman raised a brow at the carnage the northern woman left strewn in her path. "Well," said the stranger. "That was certainly... colorful." His lazy way of being concerned was not lost on her as he lifted her sword from the dirt and approached her, spinning it with a grace not unaccustomed to thieves and cut throats, but his technique, like hers, was mastered and flawless, not clumsy and showy. She made no mistake, like her, this man was a skilled killer. He offered her her blade, handle first. "I must say, I'm certainly thankful you came along when you did. Not to sound ungrateful, but...," he smiled mid sentence. "You know what? It matters not. I am Dracian of Messantia. Thief, pirate, archer, lover," he delivered that last little with a flirtatious tone that was barely impressive to the northerner. His bow was almost as unimpressive. "You seem... a ways from home. I'm parched and there is a fresh water stream not far from here. Why not get yourself cleaned up and I'll fill my skin. While we're at it you tell me what brings you this far south, unless it's because I owe you money, or am the father of your child. I'm not the father of anything am I? Although, I'm pretty sure I'd have remembered a night with you." He didn't wait for an answer, his blades back at his side he scooped up his dropped gear, complete with a bow and a full quiver. "Come, let us see which of us tried to mug and murder the other first. It'll be fun!" He smiled widely.
  13. "So!" The man said as he parried a lunge for his head with a quick swat of his wrist. "My fiery rescuer... you come here often?" The man was lithe and agile, moving around like a man who was less a soldier and more survivor. Thankfully the arrival of the Vanir had the fools so off balance that he was practically doing all he could to stop from bursting out into laughter. He could not have planned this any better, which was true, considering before she arrived... he had no plan at all. Fueled with rage, and possibly some desperation, the one soldier giving him attention was becoming more frustrated with every missed blow that Dracian smirked when he finally saw his opening. He parried high, knocking the mans weapon away high and wide as he pivoted his body, turning about so his back slammed into the man's front. The soldier's eye widened as he felt the curved sword slide through him. While Dracian parried with one blade, he stabbed with the other. The soldier died, slumping over, his head resting on Dracian's shoulder. He let the man comfortably fall to the floor. "I know, I know, that sounds like a line," He said, his accent was thick and rich. He spun his blades until they faced downward, sticking into the soil where he rested on them like twin canes. "What was it that drew you here, hm? The salty sea air? The crashing of the waves? The scent of a real man?" He waggled his eye brows at her while she fought for her life, a roguish grin imprinted across his lips. He casually walked around the perimeter of her battle, like it were a pit match. She shot him an icy look. "Don't look at me, look at them... they're the ones trying to kill you, luv." He swatted his finger away from himself and at her and the gentleman, shooing her gaze from him in a gesture for her concentrate on the battle at hand.
  14. Name: Dracian of Messantia Homeland: Argos (Sea Raider) Caste: Outcast Caste Talents: Embittered, Survivor Story: One of the Rabble Trait: Betrayed Archetype: Master Thief Nature: Sneaky Education: Traditional War Story: Plundered a Merchant Vessel Languages: Aquilonian, Argossian (Exp/Focus/TN) AGILITY: 9 -Acrobatics - 2/2/11 -Melee - 1/1/10 -Stealth - 2/2/11 AWARENESS: 11 -Insight - 0/0/11 -Observation - 2/2/13 -Survival - 0/0/11 -Thievery - 5/5/16 BRAWN: 8 -Athletics - 2/2/10 -Resistance - 0/0/8 COORDINATION: 14 -Parry - 1/1/15 -Ranged Weapons - 2/2/16 -Sailing - 2/2/16 INTELLIGENCE: 7 -Alchemy - 0/0/7 -Craft - 1/1/8 -Healing - 0/0/7 -Linguistics - 0/0/7 -Lore - 0/0/7 -Warfare - 0/0/7 PERSONALITY: 8 -Animal Handling - 1/1/9 -Command - 1/1/9 -Counsel - 0/0/8 -Persuade - 1/1/9 -Society - 1/1/9 WILLPOWER: 7 -Discipline - 0/0/7 -Sorcery - 0/0/7 Talents: Ancient Bloodline, Society (A Modicum of Comfort), Parry (Deflection), (Thievery (Thief), Ranged Weapons (Accurate) Attacks: -Brawl (M): Reach 1 / 1H / Damage 2 -Scimitar: Reach 2 / 1H / Damage 3 /Q-Calvary 1, Parry -Scimitar: Reach 2 / 1H / Damage 3 /Q-Calvary 1, Parry -Shemite Bow: L / 2H / Damage 3 /Q-Piercing 1, Volly -Knife to the Throat: C / Damage 4 /Q-Stun, Vicious 1 *Dracian is fond of using the dual-weilding momentum spend when using his scimitars. Soak: -Armor - 2 (Boiled Leather) Torso, Legs -Courage - 0 Stress/Harms: Vigor - 8 | Wounds - Resolve- 8 | Trauma - Social: -Social Standing - 0 -Renown - 0 -Gold - 9 Other Belongings: Twin scimitars (exquisitely crafted), Shemite Bow, Plain Traveling Clothes, Padded Jerkin (1 Armor) Background: Dracian was, at some point in his youth, a petty noble. For reasons unknown and he doesn't seem unwilling to discuss, he was cast from his family. Disowned and left to fend for himself he soon took up with the beggars and thieves of the streets of Argos. In time he grew skilled in the arts of thievery and eventually took to the seas. By the time he was fifteen he'd already taken command of a vessel and sacked merchant ships for plunder as far as the Southern Isles. His crew was swiftly getting rich, and life was good. For more reasons unknown (which he doesn't seem willing to discuss) Dracian lost his crew, and his ship, The Peregrine. Dracian is a tall, handsome man with sun kissed skin and long black hair usually bound tightly in a pony tail. In silvery moonlight his deep, midnight black, hair possesses a sheen of purple to it. His eyes are gray, but again in the light of the moon they often appear to swirl with several colors, like the surface of a pearl. He has a secret talent in his uncanny accuracy, as most feats of coordination are simple for him. He doesn't appear to be a skilled warrior, but he's able to deflect blades aside with lightning speed and to his knowledge he's never missed anything he's ever aimed for. A consummate thief and a con man, Dracian is a man who has shirked responsibility his whole life. He acquires fortunes only to piss them away with whores and booze. He knows more women than any man should ever admit to and he's lied to them all. He can usually be found passed out in an alleyway or drunk in a brothel spending coins he's nicked from someone else. He once paid a prostitute with the money he'd just stolen from her. Usually if his lips are moving, he's lying.
  15. The Argossian spun about, whirling his blades. The northern woman arrived and the distraction she caused gave him just the opening he was waiting for. That one tick where his opponents took their attention off him opened up the opportunity for his blades to do the work they were meant to. His right blade swiftly cut low, slicing deep into one of their right thighs, just above the knee. He screamed in pain and fell to a kneel as the second blade sliced opposite, slitting the man's throat in a single swipe. "Say what y'will about northerners, gents... they sure know how to make an entrance." He stepped away, blades at the ready. His grin was a twisted mark of sarcasm, suave, and self-confidence. "Welcome aboard luv, pick a fool, kill im'. Repeat as needed, eh?"
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