Captain of the City Watch

Captain of the City Watch

• The man's appearance hints at languid disposition, from the laconic cast of his long face to his pensive and distracted manner, epitomized by the way his eyes constantly stray toward the horizon. 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 a riot of curls, iron in coloration like the blade of a serviceable weapon, a crown that he is forced to wear despite his obvious attempts to shear it off. 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. 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.
  
  Pensive yet pedantic, he looks at you and spits.
• 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. 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 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. 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.
  
  Despondent yet masochistic, 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. 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 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. A pug nose sits squat in the center of his face like a dog turd. A long braid grows from his chin, thick as his wrist and reaching his sternum. Otherwise his facial hair is cropped close. His eyes are pale and speak of finite abilities of comprehension, for their is in their stark stare the lack of depth one sees in the eyes of birds.
  
  Pensive yet effusive, he looks at you and cracks his knuckles.
• 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 heavily oiled and shaped, gleaming wetly and strangely static, not moving even with the sharpest of turns of his head. A hooked nose of such length descends down the center of his face that it summons images of cunning puppets, their noses reaching down to their chins and hanging right over their lips. 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.
  
  Bellicose yet insightful, he looks at you and yawns.
• 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. 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. A pug nose sits squat in the center of his face like a dog turd. A long braid grows from his chin, thick as his wrist and reaching his sternum. Otherwise his facial hair is cropped close. 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.
  
  Exasperated yet generous, he looks at you and coughs meaningfully.