The smell of Liqour and tobacco betray this man's presence long before his stereotypical sailor's accent can cut the silence of any seedy tavern.

Jacob Witt, a salty ol' seadog, appears to be a human male in his mid thirties. Tall for a human, but not exceptionally so, this tanned man possesses a well toned and muscular figure. Both of his arms are adorned with the type of tattoos you come to expect from a sailor, ranging from pin-ups to the more commonly seen ships, serpents and achors.

A black leather patch covers his left eye and his nose must have been broken more than once, despite the signs of obvious hardship the sailor maintains a positive outlook on life. Hardly seen without a crooked grin curling his lips or a bottle in his hand, this scoundrel takes life one day at the time.

Perhaps the rumors about sailors and there love for the bottle are true for you'd hardly catch him without a bottle in his hand and the sway in his gait.