"That" guy...  <3


Height: 5'11"
Weight: 175lbs
Hair: Jet Black
Eyes: Red
Alias: "Crow"

He can't help but listen in on conversations, and he enjoys to socialize, but for some reason, he carries himself with a silent demeanor.  He keeps to himself, and keeps distant (Typically.)  


//If you /DO/ read the following,
         I'd love feed back :3\\




The bar was packed.  
"Two Centuries." Skill said, taking a few large swigs of his fourth drink.

The room grew somewhat quiet for a moment, and it felt as if all eyes were upon him, and Skill grew a bit anxious.  He never was one for crowded places, for this very reason.

"That's quite some time to be alive, my good man." Said the old geezer next to him, his voice a tad on the wispy side, but not to the point of whispering.  Human as he was, he was old and gray at the mere age of 70.  Skill longed for that, in a sense.  The man continued,
"Why, I remember the days of my prime like it was yesterday.  I was a fighter much like yaself, and war is no stranger to me."  He boasted with a chuckle, sipping his brew, going on to talk about some valor-filled tale of blood and glory.

Skills eyes grew as large as quarters, as the dagger was plunged deep into the old mans chest.  It was twisted and dragged clear, then drawn across the neck viciously, nearly beheading the man altogether.  The head was slammed into the bar, and there stood a black garbed, hooded figure, with jet black wings sprouting from it's back and crimson red eyes glowing from within the shroud.

It was a horrifying thing for Skill to watch, looking about the place from person to person trying to see if there would be any aid against this sudden assault.  There was none.  The rest of the faces were all black garbed, hooded figures, red eyes glowing, black wings from their backs.

The ominous figure began a shrill laughter, and it was joined by everyone else in the bar.  The face on the bar was laughing too, now matching the hooded figure.  Skill jumped back from the chair, drawing his daggers and preparing to swing forth, until the old mans head spoke once more.

"Skill!?  Skill!  What's wrong Skill?"  The old man explaimed.  Skill blinked a few times, and shook his head.

The old man was sitting at the bar, unscathed, drink in hand, although a little taken aback by the sudden attack stance.  The rest of the room was again normal, and silent, all eyes on him once more.  

The bartender came over to where they were and took the rest of SKill's drink, dumping it into a barrel and stashing it away.  "You're cut off, mate.  Pay yer tab now an' keep quiet, or I'll be havin' Nikolas toss ya out into the snow."  The seven foot tall barrel-chested monster of a man at the door cracked his knuckles.

Skilgannon nodded, dropped a bag of coin on the bar with a thump, and looked between the two of them for a moment before speaking, rather sheepishly, but with a keen sense of professionalism.
"Keep the change.  My apologies for the interruption..."  He moved away from the bar, patting the old man on the back.  "Farewell Graybeard, I wish you well for as long as you do."  

He never was one for crowded places, for this very reason.
All eyes followed him until he was out the door.

In the brisk winter air, the full moon greeted him as he stepped outside.  He pulled his hood over his head and began walking.  After a few blacks, he walked by an abandoned workshop.  He looked to his left and saw his reflection in the window.

A black garbed, hooded figure, with jet black wings sprouting from it's back.

He shivered, and trudged on through the snow.
It was the coldest night he had ever known.

























































Red light: permanent stuff.

otherwise...
I RP things as they come.  If it happens, it happens.
Still got questions?  I'm Tell friendly.