Seskel Dawnbringer

Portrait
Description
Age: 26
Demeanor: Friendly, mellow but silent and watchful
Eyes: Light blue
Habits: Drinking, smoking
Hair: Blonde
Height: 5'10"
Race: Human
Scent: Liquor, herbs
Tone: Gentle, dry whisper
Weight: 200 Ibs

...At a glance...

Sprawled along each section of his knuckle is a different depiction of a demon, it looks like some sort of a tapestry, coming straight from the sistine chapel, if the sistine chapel was demonic rather than angelic. There is an aura of inner peace about him, he is in harmony with himself and it shows with each of his movements, graceful and precise. His body is covered by countless nicks and scars, concentrated at his fists more than anywhere else, long forgotten and shallow by the time his body reached his peak, however, they still serve as a reminder of a body kissed with the tools of war; at present, his body has already developed a vitality strong enough to recover from wounds in a speed that precedes the tissue of scarring altogether. Gentleness, enlightenment and love emanate from this man, a black gospel always slung at his side or in his hands.

...As you get to know...

A young individual is caught within the frame of your sight, his brash face stares at the world with arrogant eyes, not the baseless kind of arrogance many callow youngsters harbor... the more dangerous kind, the one obtained with the witness of one's own prowess, a prodigy's. In a world filled with strife, a wave of the blade is all it takes to decapitate heretics, for just those type of nights that make the skies whirl in a deep crimson and spread evil across the lands.

Blonde hair unkempt and rebellious frames his handsome, pert face and often has an uncanny sheen passing through it whether by sun or moonlight, his face is unshaven almost unnaturally so, as if either no hair has yet to protrude the unblemished skin, or he was simply enchanted so by magical means. A strange unexplained surge of power almost chokes the air around him, enough to make torches of the street flicker unsurely, as if making way for his latent, on demand powers.

Despite his young age, his voice is already commanding and experienced, what made it so is unknown, the charismatic resonance in his vocal chords would be enough to sway the vilest of hearts to do his bidding, to a point where even creatures touched with death would follow, and perhaps they do... and methods frowned upon such as these do not seem past his consideration, in fact, they would fit him perfectly. On a rare occasion, one might smell a sweet carrion's stench linger about the man, like being too close to the lion's pen at the zoo.

...Were you to know too well...

The humanoid figure, who caught your eye, is led by an aura of bloodthirst and malice that may give gooseflesh to even the bravest of them all... an aura that is only complimented by the carnivorous yellow eyes that decorate this persona's face, eyes that seem to suggest that this terror of a vibe, this mien of carnage he projects.. is only a particle of the real depth of emotion he holds contained from the word, almost as if he is too malevolent to let those around him die from knowing his true black heart and have their owns stop in their tracks.. instead, he seems more the type to torture.. to madden.. to dismantle both physically and mentally.. to make himself a thing children and adults would check under their beds at night for.

This tempest of violent and unspeakable emotions is packaged into this humanoid figure, a figure clad in the darkest robes, hooded by the darkest cowl.. where the only undimmed colors are those eyes, but underneath the layers of fabric is a pristine, spotless, pale gray skin.. befitting those who had lost their souls long ago.. befitting those who feed on others.. and beneath the pads he calls lips is yet another, perhaps predictable surprise, long fangs that seem designed to puncture jugulars, fangs that had many a taste over the unknowable course of years this individual may have lived, though he looks stuck in time, ageless, not young nor old, there is no doubt many years of wisdom and boredom guide this wayward evil to its next step.

...Upon the darkest of nights...

A pot helmet would cast a pale emerald light dimly upon those that drew near, thoroughly analyzing down to their finest details and peering into their very souls. A seemingly large tongue would flick and drag across those thin black glossed lips of his, before a tone which would suggest those lips were curved rather widely at all times would then proceed to be expelled inbetween with a warm breath. That tone was very welcoming, gentle and polite... it would give those whose ears it graced emotions of warmth, comfort and most of all... it would invite them to seek refuge within this man's company and presence. The voice would echo very quietly within the metallic helmet, sometimes barely audible between the pattering droplets of rain that always bombarded the streets and the pot helmet that contained and silenced his charming voice even further. Golden armor and wood-colored gnarled branches and finely sewed cloth would adorn the rest of his body. Hints of a blue magical crest running down his cloak, as well a rather long blue loincloth... his odd sense of dress was perhaps very questionable.

...Were you to fall under his spell...

Mind control, hypnosis... reality itself becoming distorted as you become lost in a bliss of fantasy, desire and ambition. An illusory state where your wildest dreams come true, a series of perfectly planned words and events that seem so surreal that you feel you are a puppet with strings operating your limbs and organs, your very thoughts in a flawless sequence.

This man has a way with words and the power to inspire and sway others to follow him, sometimes this means through supernatural or unnatural means.
Player:Vozyra
Gender (Visually):Male
Race (Visually): Human