Feral_Intelligence
Howl at the Moon
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Posts
- 2,064
Name: Dravon Morrind
Race: Human appearance (Daelkyr half-blood)
Age: 29
Class: Hexblade
Appearance: Taller than average with a wiry build. His dark, shaggy hair reaches his shoulders. His eyes are a piercing green that make him seem as alluring as they do intimidating. He wears leather armor and has a battleaxe at his side. He usually wears his cloak draped over his right arm to hide his forearm is covered in giant organic claw. The cloak also hides the the slithering stalks grafted onto his back. An insect like symbiot is attached to his right arm at the wrist.
The perpetual rain of Sharn dripped down on Dravon as he walked through the Dragon Towers district. The City of Towers was an unpleasant place, but then he was an unpleasant person. The tall towers cast long shadows and it felt like twilight had come early. His own strange eyes did not care if it was day or night, but the effect was not lost on him. It was as if the city was trying to manifest its own malignancy.
He had come here, after all, because he could sense the misery of the place. Most of the population were downtrodden and just trying to make ends meet. The rest were the predators that preyed on them. There were many, many bad people here, and he did not have to worry about hurting them. If some gang member died it meant little and less to him because he was just another one of those bad people. This was a safe place for him to be because he could find victims and not worry about harming the innocent.
Dravon still needed coin to live though. While he was not above killing some thug for his purse, he was trying to avoid falling into outright murder and robbery. He had earned a reputation as a tough problem solver, though. That meant that work had a way of finding him. That was why he was standing outside a House Cannith forge.
He did not have to bother knocking. The door was opened by a waiting warforged. The man of metal, wood, and stone looked at him with an unreadable face. He had fought a few as a mercenary during the Last War and could tell this was an impressive specimen. Not one he would be eager to take on.
"I can shred him. He is not so tough," said a voice in his head. His left hand flexed claws hidden under his cloak.
"Let us see. Let us see," said twin voices only he could hear. He could feel the twins squirming on his back, wanting to reach their eye stalks out of his cloak to look around.
"Quiet," he silently commanded them. With his right hand he gave the letter that had been sent to him to the warforged.
"This way," the forged told him then turned to lead him through the well appointed hall. Whoever lived and worked here was not doing bad for them self it seemed. Tools sat on tables near arcane devices while gilted pictures hung on walls. It was as much workshop as home. The warforged opened a door and he was ushered in to meet the master of this place and whoever else was keeping him company.
Race: Human appearance (Daelkyr half-blood)
Age: 29
Class: Hexblade
Appearance: Taller than average with a wiry build. His dark, shaggy hair reaches his shoulders. His eyes are a piercing green that make him seem as alluring as they do intimidating. He wears leather armor and has a battleaxe at his side. He usually wears his cloak draped over his right arm to hide his forearm is covered in giant organic claw. The cloak also hides the the slithering stalks grafted onto his back. An insect like symbiot is attached to his right arm at the wrist.
The perpetual rain of Sharn dripped down on Dravon as he walked through the Dragon Towers district. The City of Towers was an unpleasant place, but then he was an unpleasant person. The tall towers cast long shadows and it felt like twilight had come early. His own strange eyes did not care if it was day or night, but the effect was not lost on him. It was as if the city was trying to manifest its own malignancy.
He had come here, after all, because he could sense the misery of the place. Most of the population were downtrodden and just trying to make ends meet. The rest were the predators that preyed on them. There were many, many bad people here, and he did not have to worry about hurting them. If some gang member died it meant little and less to him because he was just another one of those bad people. This was a safe place for him to be because he could find victims and not worry about harming the innocent.
Dravon still needed coin to live though. While he was not above killing some thug for his purse, he was trying to avoid falling into outright murder and robbery. He had earned a reputation as a tough problem solver, though. That meant that work had a way of finding him. That was why he was standing outside a House Cannith forge.
He did not have to bother knocking. The door was opened by a waiting warforged. The man of metal, wood, and stone looked at him with an unreadable face. He had fought a few as a mercenary during the Last War and could tell this was an impressive specimen. Not one he would be eager to take on.
"I can shred him. He is not so tough," said a voice in his head. His left hand flexed claws hidden under his cloak.
"Let us see. Let us see," said twin voices only he could hear. He could feel the twins squirming on his back, wanting to reach their eye stalks out of his cloak to look around.
"Quiet," he silently commanded them. With his right hand he gave the letter that had been sent to him to the warforged.
"This way," the forged told him then turned to lead him through the well appointed hall. Whoever lived and worked here was not doing bad for them self it seemed. Tools sat on tables near arcane devices while gilted pictures hung on walls. It was as much workshop as home. The warforged opened a door and he was ushered in to meet the master of this place and whoever else was keeping him company.