Name: Cinn Nightslayer  

Age: 182 (equivalent to late 20s in human years)  

Race/Species: Moon Elf  

Background:  
Cinn was born into the Nightslayer clan, a lesser-known but respected line of elven scouts and hunters in Neverwinter's outskirts. His family specialized in tracking dangerous prey-beasts, rogue mages, the occasional shadow-touched aberration. But where his kin thrived in discipline, Cinn always chafed against the rigidity of tradition. The first time he stole a flask of sunwine from his uncle's saddlebag at 40, it wasn't just rebellion; it was relief. Alcohol dulled the edges of elven hyperawareness, made the world softer, less precise. By the time he earned his surname, Nightslayer, in a bloody skirmish against drow raiders, he was already drinking to forget the things he'd done to survive.

Now he drifts between Neverwinter's taverns and mercenary bands, taking odd jobs when coin runs low. The irony isn't lost on him-he's still a hunter, just one who chases oblivion instead of prey.  

Physical Appearance:  
Cinn stands at an unremarkable 6'1" for a moon elf, though his broad shoulders and corded forearms hint at years of archery and close-quarters brawls. His hair, black as a raven's wing, hangs just past his shoulders, often tied back in a loose knot when he remembers to care. Blue eyes-pale as glacial ice-betray fatigue more than elven mystique, underscored by faint violet hollows. His ears, slightly shorter than most of his kin's, bear a nick on the left lobe from a drunken knife game gone wrong.  
He favors layered tunics in muted greens and browns, practical for blending into forests or ale-stained tavern benches. A silver pendant, shaped like a crescent moon (a Nightslayer heirloom), rests against his collarbone, tarnished from neglect.

Personality:  
Cinn's humor is dry, self-deprecating, and deployed like a shield. He'll jest about his own failings before anyone else can, though the laughter never quite reaches his eyes. There's a sharpness beneath the haze-an observant, almost analytical mind that surfaces when sober, assessing exits, weaknesses, debts.  
He resents pity but craves connection, which makes him terrible at both. Most of his friendships are transactional: drinking buddies, fellow sellswords, the occasional sympathetic bartender. The few who've seen him sober describe a man oddly tender with animals, prone to leaving coins in orphans' palms, and violently embarrassed by both.  
His greatest fear isn't death; it's the moment clarity returns, and he has to face what he's become without the blur of alcohol to soften the edges.

Reds: nothing against the rules