Before you stood Abel, seemingly lazy and worn with a mild disinterest. He wasn't anything spectacular, a face among many, a sword among many. But that isn't to say he's without secrets.

 Face:

  A man with a winning composure, Abel wore himself calmly in the face of opposition - and with seeming ease. His angular jaw-line, his pierced nose, his expression more often than not cast into an easy grin; he was handsome surely, maybe not a bonafide heartbreaker, but handsome.

 Hair:

  Medium of length, Raven of colour - Abel's hair was best described as somewhat well-kept. After a journey, battle, or a roll in the hay - it wasn't unlikely to see the man with a ruffled mess, shining with a hint of grease. Didn't mean he couldn't clean up proper though~

 Body:

  Before you stood a man who appeared small in actual size - dwarfed by many in such a city. That didn't seem to detract from how he held himself, there was always an impossibly easy calmness to the man. Toned and shapely, Abel sported a dreamy physique - one of religious training; this granted Abel the look of a warrior, sizable arms and stomach you could break bones on.

 Gear:

  Scraps of weathered leather, worn plates, tattered cloth - the assorted bits were fashioned together to form his garb, which doubled as his armour. Abel held very much, a city look to himself - somebody you might assume to spend his time in the rougher parts of town. He certainly differed from his brothers and sisters of the wood in that measure. Upon his back was strapped a Claymore, simple of design, nothing incredibly imposing - a sword of war. With a leather bound grip, dyed by ages of use, and a guard decorated with many a cleft; the blade honed, but battered - it was fair to say this blade is something of an old faithful.  

 Tattoo/Markings:

  Depicted in the form of a tattooe, upon Abel's right arm is a split in his skin - running the length of his bicep. Inside, where one would assume to be flesh, there is only blackness, and from the blackness, two talon tipped hands, each with six fingers pry back his skin - perhaps in an attempt to unlesh whatever lies within the dark.
  As for scars, this man is no stranger to them - assorted lines of wrinkled flesh from blades having collided with Abel; he's simply riddled with scars - a mere lack of self preservation.

 OOC:

  Age: 144
  Home: Easthaven
 


 Lights:

  Red: I like to think I can RP out of any Situation that I find uninteresting, so do as you will.

  Yellow: Nothing exists here

  Whites: RP, Schemes, Adventure, Plot, Consequences, Dark, Horror~, Survival