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A Silver Sword GR Founder

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1. Character Name:
Geralt of Rivea
4. Character Profile:
There is the impression with this man that he is caught somewhere between a scowl, a snarl, or a sneer with his mouth. That he is never truly sure which way he will turn his lips when it comes down to it. Life has worn on him in hard ways; harsh creases along each side of his mouth speak of frowning more than smiling, there are three light scouring of past blades across bridge of nose--barely missed sword swings at his head. A severe and harsh scar that almost took the eye itself was an angry red slash on left side of face from brow to cheek. There are jagged claw marks around his neck. His hands should he have them bare are a messy story of his life, the knuckles are big and uneven, busted for drunken brawls or tough and dirty fights. They are coated in livid red scars or tiny white trails of scars from deflecting blade, dagger, hook and whatever else thrown at him, in order to continue survival.

He does not look young; but he does not look as old as he truly is, either.

The metallic brass yellow of iris was not so unusual in this new place called Rhydin, a fact he was both relieved for and some what unaccustomed to. Even the pupil which slit like a cats in bright light, then engorged in the dark to allow him to see through it did not appear to upset those who looked upon him. They did not even remark on the fact that hair feathering across shoulders was a shock of white like an old mans, when he himself was anything but.

Around his neck is a pendant in tarnished silver of a snarling wolf. The chain is thick and too short for him to be able to pull it over his head. There are no clasps. This piece of bauble will be part of him until he rots.

Though no simple jewelry this. It is a warning system that tells him when creatures best left for nightmares creep close and is essential to the line of work he does. Basically, everything the man outfits himself with is as well. The silver chain wrapped around belt, the silver sword, Aerondight, on his back, the steel Deithwen on his hip, the runed dagger at his waist, the numerous vials as well as potions at his belt, and the disturbing wicked trophy hook hanging bloody from wide leather knot at hips.

He is a Witcher. He is the man they call for when the undead swarm, when the Striga come, when the Knights of the Rose and the men of the world knocked knees and would not face the monsters created by their own magic, passions, myths and mistakes.

And, he is the man they thanked by paying him with thrown stones, fire, pitchforks. Calling him freak, mutant, inhumane or worse, counting him after they no longer needed him as no better than monster himself.
Date Registered:
Aug 13, 2013, 01:57:02 PM
Local Time:
Dec 09, 2018, 05:45:16 PM
Last Active:
Jun 01, 2017, 11:04:22 PM