Captain of the City Watch

Captain of the City Watch

• The man's appearance undercuts the gravity of his role, for he shifts his weight from heel to heel as one hand constantly picks at the hem of his cloak, a dry tongue poking out to lick at his flaking lower lip. It's hard to pinpoint his exact age, for his face is at once weathered yet unlined, the skin burnished by sun but not carved by the winds.
  
  His hair is matted mass of locks and knots, a wild revelry of umber waves that seem to defy his every attempt to tame it. A pug nose sits squat in the center of his face like a dog turd. His face is clean shaven, but recently so--the skin over his jowls and upper lip are more palid than the rest of his skin, soft and almost cadaverous in texture. His china blue eyes are startling, wide and clear, a clarion call of intelligence and frank appraisal.
  
  Pensive yet expansive, he looks at you and cracks his knuckles.
• The man's appearance speaks of indulgences, an appreciation for the finer things in life, for his girth strains his thick leather belt of woven leather even as his skin gleams with a faint sheen of sweat. Once he must have possessed a vital energy, but those days are long gone, and now the years have ashened his skin and robbed his frame of its fullness, so that he seems but a shadow come to haunt his former self.
  
  His hair is cut in a severe bowl, perfectly trimmed so that it but touches the upper rims of his ears and cuts a sharp line of black across his forehead, leaving the nape of his neck naked to the wind. His nose is ruinous, broken more times than can be imagined, kinked and splayed and causing his breath to whistle when he inhales. His face is clean shaven, but recently so--the skin over his jowls and upper lip are more palid than the rest of his skin, soft and almost cadaverous in texture. His china blue eyes are startling, wide and clear, a clarion call of intelligence and frank appraisal.
  
  Pensive yet effusive, he looks at you and arches a brow.
• The man's appearance arouses suspicions of degeneracy, from his sallow skin to the lank greasiness of his hair, calling to mind nights spent in the thrall of wine, dream-spit and catamites. The years have ossified his frame, made him stiff and sturdy so that he moves as if with limited scope to his joints, his back fused, the vertebrae welded.
  
  His hair heavily oiled and shaped, gleaming wetly and strangely static, not moving even with the sharpest of turns of his head. A pug nose sits squat in the center of his face like a dog turd. He wears a sharp, thickly grown beard that might once have been a mighty growth--recently it was chopped just beneath the jawline, giving his face a severe and harsh frame. Despite his frank manner, his eyes are strangely suggestive, sometimes seemingly almost to wink at you or slurry into a leer that quickly disappears before you can pinpoint it.
  
  Bellicose yet effusive, he looks at you and cracks his knuckles.
• The man's appearance undercuts the gravity of his role, for he shifts his weight from heel to heel as one hand constantly picks at the hem of his cloak, a dry tongue poking out to lick at his flaking lower lip. He is shockingly young, and his energy is vital and that of inexperience and enthusiasm, the virile energy of the untried and untrammeled.
  
  His hair is of the lightest flaxen hue and pulled back into a luxurious tail that hangs braided down between his shoulder blades, feathers and beads and lucky tokens woven into its mass. An aquiline nose dominates his visage, fine and aristocratic and flanked by twin flaring nostrils. He wears a sharp, thickly grown beard that might once have been a mighty growth--recently it was chopped just beneath the jawline, giving his face a severe and harsh frame. His china blue eyes are startling, wide and clear, a clarion call of intelligence and frank appraisal.
  
  Pensive yet indifferent, he looks at you and yawns.
• The man's appearance serves to emphasize the monolothic nature of the city guard, for he stares with unyielding constancy, his mouth hanging slightly open, his face without expression, the skin fashioned almost from clay, making one think of automatons and fabula. Barely out of his teenage years, he possesses a presence attained only by those who have bourn much, and understood that their lot in life is determined by the fates.
  
  His hair is but an intimation, a few curls about his ears as the clouds might circle the base of a vertiginous mountain, his scalp a torrid mass of scars that interlace like mating slugs where the rest of his hair was seared away. An aquiline nose dominates his visage, fine and aristocratic and flanked by twin flaring nostrils. He sports the beginning of a beard, faint curls that climb across the length of his jawline and nestle on his upper lip, either the product of a week's growth or the frustrating results of months attempts to prove his manliness. Red rimmed and blurred, his gaze speaks of either long nights spent working at a desk in the smoky light of torches or nights steeped in debauchery and wine, such that his stamina is sapped and his gaze rendered inert.
  
  Bitter yet laconic, he looks at you and arches a brow.