Captain of the City Watch

Captain of the City Watch

• 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. 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. An aquiline nose dominates his visage, fine and aristocratic and flanked by twin flaring nostrils. A mass of thin braids descend from his cheeks, jowls and chin like a seething nest of snakes. 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.
  
  Despondent yet laconic, he looks at you and yawns.
• 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. Despite being in the summer of his life, his skin is heavily cut by grooves and lines of tension, as if the burdens he bears bring him to the breaking point.
  
  His hair is cut in a soldier's style, clean and close to the scalp, so that the architecture of his skull is visible to all, its angles and prominences. An aquiline nose dominates his visage, fine and aristocratic and flanked by twin flaring nostrils. A mass of thin braids descend from his cheeks, jowls and chin like a seething nest of snakes. His china blue eyes are startling, wide and clear, a clarion call of intelligence and frank appraisal.
  
  Truculent yet fecund, he looks at you and his lips purse into a vicious line.
• The man's appearance is deceptively unassuming, until further study picks up on the spatterings of blood on his muddied boots and the hem of his cloak, the manner he works absently at tonguing something free of his teeth, the filth beneath his nails. 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 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. A mass of thin braids descend from his cheeks, jowls and chin like a seething nest of snakes. He blinks rapidly on occasion, as if different visions pass before his face, images and illusions that he seeks to banish before refocusing once more on you.
  
  Fulminating yet generous, he looks at you and yawns.
• 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. 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 is matted mass of locks and knots, a wild revelry of umber waves that seem to defy his every attempt to tame it. His nose is ruinous, broken more times than can be imagined, kinked and splayed and causing his breath to whistle when he inhales. 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. His eyes are narrow and speak perhaps of a heritage not wholy human, for his irises are patterned strangely and his pupils not perfectly circular. They seem to simmer beneath his low brows, spiteful and bellicose.
  
  Exasperated yet fecund, he looks at you and lays his hand gently on the hilt of his weapon.
• The man's appearance is deceptively unassuming, until further study picks up on the spatterings of blood on his muddied boots and the hem of his cloak, the manner he works absently at tonguing something free of his teeth, the filth beneath his nails. 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 matted mass of locks and knots, a wild revelry of umber waves that seem to defy his every attempt to tame it. His nostrils are voluminous, large enough to insert your thumbs into, a filled with sharp, spiky hairs that would merit the appelation of 'bristles'. 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. Sharp and piercing, his eyes are sunken into high cheekbones but yet retain their authority.
  
  Despondent yet masochistic, he looks at you and sighs.