Terciel

CHARACTER INFORMATION

Name: Terciel.

Gender: Male.

Age: Twenty seven.

Class: Necromancer.

Place of Birth: Akbatanan, Corinthia.

Profession (tanner, adventurer, stable boy, tracker, etc): Spice trader.

Physical Description:

A tall, dusky skinned individual, with long, dark, partially braided hair and a full beard. A snake tattoo partially covers the left side of his face. He speaks with a lilting manner, his casual exuberance for his job infectious, leaving him with a smile on his face most of the time. Lightly muscled, as comes from lifting boxes of spices, he is generally found bare chested, albeit with a shirt close to hand for if a woman passes by.

Mental Description:

A man with an infectious personality, Terciel is by no means a novel character to those that meet him. With vanity as his main vice, and a heavy desire for a woman to call his own, he works hard at his job in an attempt to attract the attention of a certain merchants daughter that he has had an eye on for a long time. With a tendancy towards the flamboyant, he is generally the life of the party, known to play with his wares; mixing concoctions which are then burnt on a fire, releasing the fragrances within.

Background:

A tangle of muddy, winding alleys and sordid dens, frequented by the bolder thieves in the kingdom. It is indeed a maze of black alleys and enclosed courts and devious ways and shadowed plazas; of furtive sounds, and stenches. There is no paving on the streets; mud and filth mingles in an unsavory mess. Sewers are unknown; refuse is dumped into the alleys to form reeking heaps and puddles. Unless a man walks with care he is likely to lose his footing and plunge waist-deep into nauseous pools. Nor is it uncommon to stumble over a corpse. A death cry on darkened stairs is nothing unusual.

Aristocracy occupies purple-towered marble and ivory palaces. There is a curtained door into a well-lighted broad circular chamber, banded by a gallery half-way between the polished floor and the lofty ceiling. There is an ornate mahogany table, loaded with vessels of wine and rich viands. There are broad mirrors on the walls, with velvet hangings between. There are silken couches, chairs of ebony and ivory. Sitting here is a man; a man with dreams of grandeur.

Outside, guarded by three surly mercenaries, is a wagon. A faded red throw covers the back of it, barely hiding some of the large wooden boxes that are stacked three or four high on the wide platform. Terciel smiles as he looks out of a window at the wagon below. His coin will not last long in this establishment, and he will soon have to be back on the road, but as he looks at his investment below, he cannot help but smile. Sipping from an ornate goblet, he scours the front of the wagon for the strongbox that contains something very valuable. He looks down at the letter in his hand, signed in the hand of that oh so desirable merchant's daughter, frowning slightly at the slight frosting of the edges of the parchment. Folding it up, he tucks it into his shirt. His parents would not approve of what he has become, but they have served their time for him. As a servant enters the room to show him to the exit, he smiles. There is still a lot more to learn.