Name:
Dros Delnoch
Race:
Human
Class:
Witcher
Age:
97
Appearance:
There have been many descriptions for this particular witcher, but many have been exaggerated over the years. Many have described him as a giant, standing well over 7 feet tall, swinging his ax Snaga to dreadful effect into ranks of unsuspecting warriors. Reality is far less kind. Standing barely an inch above six feet, he is hardly a giant of any sort, except in sheer mass, which he has plenty of. A stout man, with immense arms the size of most men's thighs, a thick chest topped by broad shoulders. His legs are thick and stout, and as any man would tell you, it is quite difficult to get him to lose his balance. His hair and beard are a pure white, and his eyes are the color of a winter sky, with the pupils slitted, like a cat's.
He is best known for his armor, a helmet of northern make, with silver skulls embedded over each temple. Dressed in a coat of mail, covered in small plates over the chest, gauntlets of steel, leggings of leather, with extra protection around the groin area, and steel-toed boots, if you saw him charging at you with a double-bladed ax, you would know that you are finished. When not in battle garb, he tends to be dressed in a bear pelt coat, sheepskin shirt and the same leggings and boots. He carries a medallion with a lion's head on it wherever he goes.
In general, a 90-year-old that lives like a fifty-year-old and fights like a 30-year-old.
Personality:
Generally a good-meaning fellow, with a deep hearty laugh and a good sense of humor, along with a taste for drink and women, he is known for drinking many a champion to sleep, telling tales of magic and wonder, and even singing, if that is one of his lesser skills. A man that is hard to be missed, whether he is travelling, drinking, rutting, or, especially, fighting. He gives off a very large presence, which dumber or more poetic (in his eyes, the same thing) people see as him being physically larger than he actually is.
While one hell of a fighter, thanks to 3 quarters of a century spent fighting, and with his witcher's adaptation and training, he is also feared for being a natural beserker, a man that can go into what some call a battle rage or a Kon Dar (blood thirst, in Nilfgaardian) at will. Nearly unstoppable when he goes into one of those, the sheer menace that he radiates, besides the fact that an already intimidating figure is covered in the blood and gore of his fallen enemies, screaming and cursing in different languages has been known to have even the greatest of warriors soiling themselves, and running.
Weapons:(Nothing too overpowered here, please)
Snaga, the Sender (steel), usually carried in his hands.
Drucos, the Receiver (silver), Generally sheathed on his back
Bio:
His origins are murky, but it is generally agreed that he is not a born Nilfgaardian, although he has been given many regards by the Emyr himself, given full citizenship by the same. He was born in some unknown, unnamed village of a kingdom north of Nilfgaard, and was one of the first to fall into the Empire. His parents were killed in the war when he was young of age, and he was one of the many orphans of that war. Taken in by the Lion's Witcher school, the last one in the south, he trained there for about 20 years, leaving at the age of 25, to seek out his own fortunes. He joined the Nilfgaardian army then, fighting alongside them, quickly distinguishing himself among many, soon being promoted to Emyr's champion.
He fought in the second Nilfgaardian War, and while they lost, it was not for lack of his effort. One of the most powerful figures in that war, he is said to have dueled the White Wolf himself, and beaten the other Witcher to a standstill, both sides conceding a draw. After that war, however, some say because he was disappointed at the retreat of Nilfgaard, he abandoned the Empire and became what witchers usually tended to be: A monster hunter and a mercenary.
Even as this he gathered quite a name for himself, and while he seemed a bit more mellow than he was in his past days, he was still a fighter to behold and fear, both against men and monsters, fighting in the various smaller wars that the North was known for. However, as his age began to grow (although his body, barring his hair, remained quite young and strong), he began to see futility in the fighting, and retired in general, enjoying rather to travel across the North and enjoy the countryside, killing monsters and escorting caravans and noblemen in their travels when he needed coin.
