Lord Teague Charon
Your art is words. My art is blood. Shall we dance?
Social Rank: 6
Concept: Silent Warrior
Marital Status: single
Hair Color: black
Eye Color: stormy blue
Description: This man towers at the height of 6'5, with a massive frame, broad shoulders, and thick chest. His hair is midnight black and dense, long enough to reach the middle of his back even when plaited into a metal woven braid. His exposed skin is covered in deep, layered scars and burns, the body of a warrior that has enjoyed the finer points of war and death. His cold stormy blue eyes seem distant, dulled over by years of indifference towards the world. His lips are carved granite, thick but uncurved.
Personality: Cold. Quiet. Watching the world behind his stormy blue eyes. His lips barely moving, a face of cold stone. Down deep, he is a man in conflict with himself as he wishes to connect to the world but not truly understand how one can do so. As he watches others enjoy the world, he finds them weak. At least that is the lie he tells himself. The truth is his jealously at their nature pains him deeply.
Background: The oldest son born to the Merrick of Highrock, brother of the lord of the house. A warrior, cold, trained under the cold hand of his father. From a young age, the boy was put into his paces, broken bones, bloody face, and warrior horned for nothing but the field of war. His purpose is to protect his purpose of killing, honoring his house and his family with his body. Trained, by his cold father told to feel, never to expose his emotion to the world. But his father died in a battle when Teague turned 21, leaving him isolated. His mother was a cold woman that never had time for him or was told never to tend to him. Too busy at parties, too busy with her secret lovers to give the boy the time of day.
As a lord, he was cold, indifferent to the world of political nature. Guided slowly into this art by his advisor. Teaching him to listen, to speak only when needed. To guide others to the truth, expose the lies in their words, with his cold indifference.
Years of battle, now years of watching making him able to find the needle in the shrewdest lie before him. Lords, sending him gifts, sending him woman telling him of the larger cities' wondrous nature. Nothing, drawing home from his home but battles after battle. Leading his men, protecting his land. Ages seem to pass without his cold heart being touched, till he was told it was time to marry. He picked the name at random, sending off the gift. Luckily or unlucky, it was accepted, his bride to be sent to meet him shortly. Not yet, lay eyes on each other, that day will be shortly.