This man, more than most any other in Blacksteel, did not look like he belonged. His skin was dusky and tanned, weatherworn by a lifetime outside of sheltering walls. He was tall, broad-chested, the athletic frame housing compact muscles made for effort rather than show. His age-lined face placed him in his thirties, but his mane of hair was steely grey, some of his youth's black showing still. His eyes were a striking hue, pale enough of a blue to be ice, a match to his ready line of white teeth.
The man had something of a savage nobility to him, a mix of self-made confidence and hard-won pride.


One might not expect it of him, but when he spoke, it was with no more than a moderate accent, its source somewhere far beyond the walls of the city, and by decades further distorted. At times, his diction failed him, but the large man was otherwise articulate, as if he had been trained. His voice was pleasant enough, a deep and warm rumble, as adept at menace and laughter alike. In general, his demeanor seemed not too dour; the man liked to laugh, to make light of things, and to think little of words for words' own sake.