Death Knows No Honor
Swamp-Dwelling Kislevite with a Temper
It is near dawn. The fragile fingers of sunlight claw gently against the thick fog of Mousillon, failing to find any real purchase in their stalwart opponent. The pitter-patter of droplets accompanies the clip-clop of horse hooves on one of the few rocky paths to be found in the surrounding mire. As the rag-tag remains of the rescue party come upon their recently, and somewhat miraculously, reclaimed vessel they are greeted by the sight of the rag-tag group of rowers they had managed to hire for the trip up river; all are dirty and caked in mud, as is to be expected in Mousillon. One particular rower is not of the same general nature of the rest. Caked in mud and povertous, yes. But there is something…wrong about him. He is unusually tall, if he were to unslouch he would be well over six feet, and he has a dirty brown and corn colored mane of hair with matching heavy eyebrows; all of which catches and holds the morning dew. His eyes are not those of a dreary, world weary peasant. His eyes have something of a feral cat about them and, if you could see past his messy robes and pouches you would see, and though he is incredibly thin, he has wiry muscles to match; nails too, long and slender like claws. He leans heavily upon his walking stick which is arrayed with animal fur and trinkets; an assortment of wolf paws lolling from a large skull wearing a mail coif. The skull itself a harrowing sight; eyes flash in its sockets. But it appears only to be an owl perched further down the staff and taking shelter in the hollow of bone.