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. 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 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. Sharp and piercing, his eyes are sunken into high cheekbones but yet retain their authority.
  
  Bitter yet expansive, he looks at you and scratches at his breeches.
• 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. 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 china blue eyes are startling, wide and clear, a clarion call of intelligence and frank appraisal.
  
  Pensive yet generous, he looks at you and frowns.
• 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. An aquiline nose dominates his visage, fine and aristocratic and flanked by twin flaring nostrils. 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.
  
  Despondent yet pedantic, he looks at you and arches a brow.
• 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. 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. His nostrils are voluminous, large enough to insert your thumbs into, a filled with sharp, spiky hairs that would merit the appelation of 'bristles'. A mass of thin braids descend from his cheeks, jowls and chin like a seething nest of snakes. 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.
  
  Bellicose yet effusive, he looks at you and spits.
• 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. 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 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. 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. 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.
  
  Placid yet generous, he looks at you and curses.