In the Gate, one must steal, fight, deceive, or die if they are relegated to the streets. Stealing felt wrong, deceiving was dangerous, and dying was no option for a man with a blood quest. My fists grew tighter every day.

Human (Half-Drow), Fighter

Chaotic Good

Age: 85 (31 appearance)

Language(s): Common, Elvish, Drow, Undercommon

Description:

A blonde, late 20s human with a tired face. Not quite optimistic in the eyes, but energized, which look strange when situated in such a weary face for a frame. My eyes are red like a drow. I’m just over 6ft tall, with a sturdy and strong build. I’m large for a human, a quality I am smug about. My skin is an olive color, though most of it is covered in my studded leather armor. A tattered cape with a foreign, faded insignia hangs from the back of my right shoulder to the front of my left shoulder. Offset so that my short sword and shield are almost always concealed. I wear no helmet. It is rare to see me without a smirk on my face. Even when my lips are pursed in frustration, they are obscured by a goatee so that it is possible that I look like I’m enjoying myself.

Special Skills:

There was never a truer strike of a sword than mine on the Gate’s guard. Though many found this a waste, as I so infrequently chose to draw blood. I’m much more inclined to use my high staying power and endurance to outfight another than to kill them. I’ve read all the histories of how Baldur’s Gate came to be, and am well studied in the factions of The Lord’s Alliance and the Zhentarim. I’ve yet to meet someone who can best me in Go, and favor myself an excellent strategist as a result. I can keep tabs on mercenaries along the road, and can infer their rank and allegiances if spotted. I have a silver tongue, and have always found a way to use my words to get what I want, either in direct conversation, or by planting seeds that grow into tall, plentiful fruit trees for my plucking.