Dakeyras Malsevor "The Hound of Morgoth"
Men, with a bit of the Westernesse hidden in his blood. It can be heard in his voice, chilling and deadly, or in his eyes, if he allows you to look upon him.
White, but well tanned.
Long, to his shoulders, with the odd braid here or there.
Black, streaked with grey.
A full beard, not long.
Facial Hair Colour:
Black, streaked with grey.
Too many to count. A few stand out, in particular. One, across his chest, when he foolishly attacked a bear, four claws raked across. one, across the crown of his head, which was from an Elf's bow, with narrowly missed, and which he killed as well. Several others on his face, adding to the silver in his beard and hair.
, shooting small darts, effective, and lethal, at up to 10 yards. From past that, poison would be needed. Baldric of throwing knives
, strapped across his chest, hidden. Also ineffective at long ranges, unless poisoned. A short sword
on his back, of elven make, even though looks simple, in the years that he has used it, it has never dulled, never rusted.
While most would accredit him with his skill with the crossbow, the knives, and his sword, few would notice his almost eerie sixth sense, being able to feel the presence of an enemy close by, being able to read a man's character in a glance. Nothing magical about it, at least not in a wizard's fashion. The blood of Numenor still runs in his veins, and while some say that this apple has fallen far from the tree, they could not be more wrong. While he has a hard time working in group, or leading men, his uncanny skills, and the odd code of honor by which he abides set him apart, and above, all others in his profession. He walks like a wraith, easily moving with the shadows, both in the cities and the wild. He travels, hunts, and speaks with authority, a man feared deeply, and his name is spoken only in whispers.
Skilled beyond peer with the crossbow and throwing knives. His skills with the blade are, in his words," Merely great." He stands a head taller than most in fencing, but men have been known to beat him in fair combat. However, when his life is on the line, he rarely fights fair. An excellent horseman.
Born in the Northwest, in the cold, Ice, and chill. His father was of the Dunedain, his mother a stout northern woman. His father taught him all he knew of hunting and killing of men and beast, and his mother taught him herbs, medicines, and, through his own inventive mind, poisons, gathered from nature all over Middle Earth. Unfortunately, when a whole tribe of goblins descended from the nearby mountains, to raid, pillage, and plunder, it was the grim Dunedain, fallen from his order, that protected the nearby settlement, with his faithful wife, whom he had also taught the arts of war, and his son, now a man of 16 years. They fought the creatures off, at the price of both his father and mother, both of whom died later on from their wounds.
He stayed in that area for a while, training himself, learning techniques, hardening himself. There was no use attempting to avenge his parents. The goblins that had killed them were dead, and if they hadn't been, they were beasts, simple as that. You couldn't blame a beast for what it did. Revenge, and the effort put into it, would be wasted on a creature craving only blood, not caring from whence it came. He merely set himself out to defend the area, being it's watchful and silent guardian.
But when raiders, men from the south, bearing the eye of Sauron, attacked, revenge was needed. He had engaged them, but had failed to kill them all, receiving rather grievous wounds himself. When he recovered, he tracked down the killers, and, from the shadows of the forest that he knew only too well, he killed them all, one by one. But there was nothing for him to return to. His life had been solitary, based only on honoring his father's legacy, and protecting his land. Now that that was gone, his skill set was useless. To farmers, anyway.
It took him a while to adapt to his new culture, killing for pay. He wasn't an assassin, but he wasn't a soldier either. He was a hunter of men and beasts, elves and dwarves, orc and easterling. He traveled across the lands, gravitating toward wherever he knew his skill would be needed. He followed a strict code, however, given to him by his father. He altered it, as his father was a Dunedain, not a man-hunter.
He was summoned to Rivendell, his skills needed on a mission of utmost secrecy and urgency. While he knew and respected Elrond Halfelven, he expected to be well compensated for whatever endeavor he undertook. He was also pledged to go through whatever the Elf had in store for him, or die trying.
Ice cold, very hard. His respect is hard to earn, as is his friendship, but it lasts longer than the towers of the Setting Sun and Rising Moon, and are harder to break. While he respects life for what it is, he has no qualms for ending it, so long as there is cause beyond monetary compensation. He has never assaulted a woman, part of his father's code, but his own twist is that he would never sleep with one without paying her first, and thus reducing his commitment to her to nothing. While his life is based around honor, it is not the kind that men would think. He kills a man with a blade in the back, and, should he he be outnumbered, has no qualms about turning his back and running. Living to fight another day could almost be his motto.
In all, he lives a sad, empty, and lonely life, the hunter of men, the Hound of Morgoth.