Social Rank: 9
Concept: Luckchild Sellsword
Fealty: Crownsworn
Family: Culler
Gender: male
Marital Status: divorced
Age: 33
Birthday: 08/22
Religion: Pantheon
Vocation: Soldier
Height: tall
Hair Color: grey-black
Eye Color: brown
Skintone: light

Description: Standing at six feet tall, though you'd never know it because the clothing is always a little too large, is a man. Go figure, right? The face is a mixture of age, and youth; age, for despite clearly being a man instead of a boy, he hasn't matured very much. Laugh-lines permeate the cheeks, and the eyes are dappled by the same, the nose having been broken once. The right eyebrow has two little lines of hair that don't grow back anymore - a strike that has left a faded scar. Near-misses dapple the skin, except the neck. The neck has a garish mark upon the right and left sides - the rough outline of what can only be a fox (or a really deformed cat) that has never quite healed right. A brand. The rest of him is boundless in energy, and his movements are erratic, constant, moving too-and-fro like waves and trees in the wind. Stumbling, likely drunk.
    The hands are fast, rapid, twisting and dancing over each other and displaying almost completely black skin! Dyed by tattoos of dice, knives, and a plethora of skulls with the letter 'C' on the forehead. It continues up the forearms, vanishing into imagery of coins!

Personality: Luckbearer. Golden Child. Foxfriend. Jak o' Crows. Whimsy. Hedonistic. A gambler and Fool. No one likes a braggart, but, Gods damn him...Ravna is -lucky-, and that good fortune has tainted everything about him, and his outlook on life. Light-hearted, and unable to take anything seriously - even violence - the world, life itself, has become a game, and he is rolling dice with Death...but the bastard keeps winning! In a room where everything is in its place, expect this man to enter and summarily mess it up. Or swipe a few things, that's happened more than once. SorryNotSorry.

Background: No one really knows where he comes from, just that The Cullers found him one day, a baby boy playing in the mud -- with a single gold coin. He wasn't in danger, wasn't sick, and no one was looking for him. One day, in the mud and sewage and crime-ridden streets...The Cullers adopted a Luckchild. Which sounds far too generous, because his childhood wasn't filled with just luck. Trouble-Maker, is what he was, from climbing where he shouldn't be, taking money in games from boys who were thrice his size -- and somehow always managing to find his own brothers first. Witty. Lucky. Ravna had a talent for Trouble. Always did. The guards hated it, and the Family laughed about them hating it enough to not hate him for it...until that Luck caught him the first time -- a fight turned into a brawl turned into a small riot, and it ended up with a girl being stabbed...his adoptive father, Ajus, struck his back so bad with a belt it has left permanent scars. To make matters worse, it was the first time Ravna was sent to prison, and for a year he grew there...until a cousin who knew a guy who had a guard's gambling debt cleared -- set him free. The trouble came back, without falter, for years. Mischief and mayhem. Learning how to fight with sticks as boys, turned into learning how to kill with spears, and other polearms. Learning how to slice a man open from cock-to-chin and stabbing his friend in the throat! One battle with a Sellsword company, 'The Greybacks', turned into six. Six turned into eight. Eight turned into -- well, dice came into his life, and dice left. Wine. Women. Once more, Home in the slop called to him...and once more, just a night returned...and Ravna was back in prison. One year turned to three. Three turned into an execution...and then some dolt forgot to write him down in the charter, and Ravna was set free. Again. Possessed by his own zest for life, and a feeling of divine deliverence....well, Trouble started again.