Eyes
-
scarlet bloodletter
"Estne volumen in braccas, an solum tibi libet me videre?"
"Is that a scroll in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?"»»———- ———-««
Name
Laurentius Sonnen
Age
Visibly, 34
Species
Appears human.
Shadar-Kai
Health
lorum
Alias
Wren,
Scarlet Bloodletter
Rennie is reserved for Crowe.
Orien.
Pansexual,
polyamorous.
Height
6'
Align.
Chaotic Neutral
Job
Wren of The Flock,
Assassin
Location
???
World
Faerun
Voice
Melodious, light,
sonorous, rings
with excitement.
Claim: Matthew Tuck
»»———- ———-««Appearance
Wren is a man of modest means and even simpler wants. If it gets him around his work quietly, doesn't impede his stride and doesn't make his arrows fall out, he wears it. His red hair is also cropped at odd angles and untamed, flopped on his left like a mop. Strange and odd creature that he is, he seems to prefer it that way. His face is harsh angles and ends in a hooked nose, handsome to only very few people. Eyes bright blue glimmer with magic, both sought after and the one that runs latent in his veins; he wears it well, and the look in them is usually wild with anticipation and bloodlust. A face tattoo lines the left of his cheeks over a scar from a very narrowly-missed arrow that almost cost him his life.
If the danger that's threatening him seems to be within his visible age group, he will absolutely flirt with it throughout the encounter. Doubly so if it is absolutely a deathmatch.
Inventory
➣ Bleeding Bouquet, dual shortswords/arrows.
➣ Antidotes.
➣ A dented locket.
➣ A knife. Just one.
Skills
• Identifying poison.
• Stealth
• Arcane Combat
• A charmer.
Strengths
✔ Violence
✔ Charm
✔ Agility
✔ Assholery
Weaknesses
✘ Facing emotions
✘ Paying attention
✘ Impatience
✘ Diplomacy
...
Personality
【✔ focused, resilient, loyal, romantic, positive✔】
【♦ casual, even-tempered, honest, whimsical♦】
【✘ irreverence, impatient, impulsive, melodramatic, self-destructive✘】»»———- ———-««
"How would you describe that Wren fellow, Captain?""Like a loaded shotgun laid on a bartop.
So many things can 'appen wit 'em, not all o' 'em good."
»»———- ———-««Wren's lips are rarely ever seen in anything but a smile, and even in the face of danger does his thin lips offer a flirtatious word before he deals with it as necessary. The man is chaos contained by the promise of money and his word to the Flock—killing is the first thing he is skilled at, flirting the second, and he’s a tad too self-conscious of his rough-hewn, angular features to work the brothels. Before the forging a pact with Geist at a tender age of 11, his morals were non-existent; if it gave enough coin, he didn’t care whose blood was being spilled, nor did he deign to investigate them. Even now, he leaves the adjudicating to Zaharah, who is better equipped to peer into the hearts of others and would rather sit by as one of her foremost executioner. He considered himself a weapon to be wielded; nothing more, nothing less—and by the gods, he does his work.
Deeper inside, turmoil stirs in such a nonchalant man’s heart, but he tries to flick it away as if it were a persistent stray cat begging him for scraps at the table. As much as he tries to kill the thoughts as it surfaces, he yearns for something more, something substantial than simple living, killing, and drinking himself underneath the table alongside his coworkers, Crow and Thrush being the most frequent partners.
He knows living a happy life simply just isn’t for him, yet his heart yearns for closeness, closure even. He often quells these thoughts as weapons getting blunt, and a harsh sharpening is needed.
Feverish frivolities have landed himself in ever so frequently, the arms of Crow, his usual partner in missions. Where others lacked synergy, they could anticipate each other's movements, read where they lacked without words and compensated each other at the drop of a knife. There was an unspoken trust in getting the job done, and it didn't quite help that they both got along like a lit match on a pyre, ready to burn in the throes of passion at a moment's notice.
When his beloved forswore the fate he was carved to become upon the reveal of their benefactor's betrayal, of Father Koel's disgusting practice to steal starving children with the promise of talent from the streets and turn them into tools of destruction, to use familial love as bait to keep them ever loyal to the cause then use their corpses past death, Wren made a proposal to the High Raven–in exchange for Crow to still be able to draw boons from them, Wren would take Crow's share of his kills for him.
This caused him to one day, be hit with a curse that landed on his hands to be ever stained red with the blood of the holy. Clerics of Bane they were, yet clerics all the same, and in Geist's name, he did his duty. It was either his hands or Crow's, and Wren would rather shoulder the burden for him.
»»———- ———-««
"Futuendi gratia."
"For fuck's sake."
