Name: Castian Caramitru
Age: Early twenties
Place of origin: Federation of Constanta, The Duchy of Galati
Physique: Broad-shouldered with well-defined musculature
Attire: Leather doublet worn over a loosely fitted silken shirt
Jewelry: Two golden chains. Each with a cross-shaped key at its end
Occupation: Third hand of the viscount
Allegiance: Duke Mironescu
This young man, impressive in build and handsome in his features, seems used to carrying himself with dignity and confidence.
His countenance, though youthful and fresh, seems to convey a certain degree of experience.
His body, broad of shoulder and with all the defined musculature of an athlete, speaks of a life spent in rigorous and extensive training, of many lessons learned in the arts of sword-fighting, courtly etiquette and all other skills that befit a man who's to live life dedicated to the service of nobility and to the honor of his own family.
All of this young man's experience confidence and training seems however to the astute observer - to be failing him.
He bears himself like the man he is, like the man he has trained to be. But beyond that veneer, fear and paranoia seem to be taking hold.
Those bright young eyes, so well used to being in command of each and every situation, flicker this way and that. His steady composure at times broken by the din of the city and the sights that lurk in its dark corners. In those brief moments, he looks less like a man and more like a frightened boy.
It seems that Blacksteel has a lot to teach him. Of what honor means, of what life away from peaceful sunkissed cliffs requires of a man. Of what it takes to survive.
His attire is simple yet well tailored. A balance struck between exuberant form and practical function. All articles of clothing seem fashioned from exotic and expensive materials. Silk from the farthest reaches of the mainland's trade ships, supple leather worked by the most skillful of hands, trews weaved from rare cotton and jewelry of gold wrought with expert attention to detail.
Yet, for all it's fine craftsmanship and attention to detail, his attire is worn and weathered by recent events. The leather of his doublet marred by the acidity of salt water, his boots of suede grimy and matted with dirt. Keeping up appearances, in other words, seems to have become something of secondary concern.
A decided lack of patience seems to reign his temper of late. A grim spark of annoyance commingling with that creeping uncertainty.
|Player:||two poignant words|