Yet another stands before us... Then so be it. For the curse of life, is the curse of want. And so, you peer... Into the fog, in hope of answers.



  The figure that stands before you is often silent, reserved in their own pitiful way. With lack luster posture and an ambition to match,  they are often seen wandering the lands with a world apart gaze. Tattered rags, rusted bits of mail, and weathered linen form their age-old garb. A traveler no doubt, but seemingly without destination.

Face:

  A youthful one, early in their adult-hood, yet seemingly exasperated. With dark bags that hang deep beneath each bloodshot eye, Flynn looks as though sleep is a thing long past, a memory if anything. Their voice rolls out as a sullen, heart wrenched mono-tone that echoes with ache. Simple dark brown hair often swept up within their cowl.

Body:

  Weak, scrawny, thin. Flynn sports an ungainly physique, one of malnutrition. Far from imposing was this individual, a stepping stone for others. Despite all that, they're always able to trudge about the lands without much difficulty.

Markings:

  Upon the inside of Flynn's right wrist is a bold, scarred circle of wrinkled, discoloured flesh. Black like charcoal, it's a simple large circle that seemed to be branded into their arm.

Jewlery:

  About Flynn's neck is a worn strand of leather that bore a single bronze medallion that depicted a glorious sun. It was of simple make, and upon appraisal showed little to no value.