Arafed man in armor with a sword in a narrow alley

He has the wiry frame of someone who’s never relied on brute strength to survive. He’s lean but not weak, his body built for quick, sharp movements rather than sustained endurance. His face is sharp, fox-like—high cheekbones, a slightly pointed chin, and a mouth that always seems to be on the verge of smirking. His eyes are a pale green, quick and calculating, always assessing, always searching for some unseen advantage. They flicker with amusement more often than warmth, though there’s something in them that suggests a deep bitterness beneath the charm. His hair is dark blond, almost light brown, tousled in a way that seems effortless but is likely deliberate. It’s slightly longer than practical, brushing just past his ears, strands constantly falling into his face. His skin is fair but lightly tanned, though he lacks the weathered look of someone who has spent too much time in the sun. He dresses in dark leather armor, fitted close to his form, built for mobility rather than protection. A dagger sits at each hip, the hilts well-worn, and a thin rapier rests against his back. He moves with a casual, almost lazy grace, as if the world around him is just a stage for his amusement. But his movements are deceptive—he’s quick when he wants to be, and when he strikes, it’s without hesitation. His voice carries a distinct, almost mocking lilt, as though he finds everything and everyone just slightly ridiculous. It’s rare for him to speak without some level of sarcasm or teasing, but when his tone turns serious, there’s an unsettling weight to it. He has the air of someone who’s seen too much, who’s been disappointed too many times, and now treats the world as a joke to keep himself from caring too much.

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