[b]Name:[/b] Alexander Branwen
[b]Age:[/b] 30
[b]Gender:[/b] Male
[b]Description:[/b] Alexander is a big man in most every way imaginable. He is tall, standing at nearly seven feet. He is large-framed, even for his height, boasting muscular arms sprouting from a barrel chest, long thick legs and wide, firm hands. His head, though normally proportioned, sports a massive smile nearly constantly, standing prominent on a field of mottled stubble. His eyes are wide and his nose scarred and deformed from several run-ins with hard steel or angry fists. His voice is loud and boisterous, deep and commanding but quick to jape and quicker to laugh a laugh that fills rooms to near bursting. His tan skin is marked and cratered, each inch bearing a remnant of some past service to crown and coin, weathered and calloused and in general disrepair. His short brown hair, the exception to the rule, sits atop his head short and unobtrusive, kept fastidiously short. Clad in a dented plate harness when trouble is afoot, in roughspun and patched cloth when in relaxed company, he never gives too much mind to his sense of fashion, rarely having enough money to warrant the thought.
[b]Occupation:[/b] Ex-Mercenary in the Dragon-Tooth Company, looking for gainful employment in the business of monster hunting.

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Alexander’s boots crunched along the ill-tended byway, the dew frozen to the ground voicing its discontent with every heavy footfall. Had Alexander been in better spirits, he would have said the morning was beautiful. The ground sparkled as though it were laced with diamonds and sapphires, the reflective patterns changing with every step taken, stretching out before him as he climbed the shallow hill. The forest enclosed him on all sides, the long boughs of leaning evergreens grasping plaintively towards the center of the road, still but for the occasional gust of morning breeze that shook them from their stillness in languorous, twisting arcs, eventually settling back to their rest to repeat the process. The air smelt of crisp morning and damp forest, a familiar scent to any seasoned traveler, and one that would, to a happier man, speak of enticing mystery and beautiful vistas.

Alexander, unfortunately, was not a happier man. His usual smile and poorly-whistled tune were replaced with grimaces and shifting eyes, his confident long strides replaced with a mix of paranoid caution and hurried fear, speaking of a man profoundly uneasy. 

“Damned forests. Nothin’ good ever came outta woods that weren't with a hunter, I say.”

Alexander rarely spoke to himself, but in his solitude he indulged in it, for no other reason than to cut through the oppressive silence. He had never liked the silence; he’d spent his whole life amongst thousands of people, and the few silences he’d been in were always right before some of the worst times of his life. There was a silence deeper than the ocean before Bright Forest. Mad name for a wood you couldn’t see the sky in, he always said, and a madder battle still. He remembered the silence in the lines before the ambush, a near-unbearable weight of tension, cut with the quietest of whistles from the captain. The part that followed had kept to the trend: all screaming men, no-one sure who was on whose side, fear and noise and stench and dark deeds and pain, all a whirl of adrenaline and britches-wetting terror.

Alexander shook his head and cleared the memory from his head. He replaced it with warm campfires, of drink and women and laughter, of dancing and singing and being paid. His jollity pressed him to start whistling again, like he had along the coast road behind him. The quiet, innumerable trees watched, and the song felt wrong. Alexander considered stopping, but he was too determined to spit in the face of his childish fears and melodramatic rememberings, and so he kept going. The whistle turned into a hum, the hum into a song, and by the time he emerged from the forest no more than an hour later he was singing and capering all around the road, the songs changing from bawdy drinking tunes to military marches to mournful shanties. Probably gave the woman he nearly ran into at the crossroads a fright, some giant come out of the forest, massive sword over a shoulder and clattering pack over his back, singing obnoxiously about some lass from Gullsbury and her bright fair hair.

The embarrassment he felt at the woman’s confused and scared expression pulled him out of his memories and placed his awareness fully back into the present. He apologized and looked out over the plains to his destination, the sight of it filling him with that familiar joy of seeing the end of a long journey.  The city of Temrin stood like a mountain among the flats of the countryside, and from it snaked a dozen roads, each covered in people despite the godless hour of the morning it was. The unfriendly memories threatened to return for a brief moment, seeing on the plains around Temrin illusory siege camps, identifying good knolls to hide from arrows and pieces of sturdy ground to erect siege engines. Alexander was out of the woods, his spirits high and completely at ease, and so the unpleasant thoughts found no purchase and faded to the background, excited thoughts of warm beds and hot meals filling his mind instead.
The last leg of the journey was brief and uneventful. A quick walk along the flats, his pace speeding slightly to escape the chagrin of the old woman who apparently was headed in the same direction as him, brought him to the gates of the city, odd looks from passersby drawn to him like flies to a candle. The attention of the civilians was nothing he was bothered with, but the attention of the guards was more of an inconvenience, and when he approached the gate he could see the handful of soldiers on duty tense and prepare themselves for a fight they no doubt thought was imminent. Alexander made no sudden moves, calmly explaining to them his reason for being in the city, and after several pointed questions he was allowed entry.

He made his way through the crowds, his height garnering him not only a wide berth but an excellent vantage point to find a tavern. He came upon the “Prancing Unicorn”, and entered. It was an upscale establishment, wooden floors and tables polished and clean, glass in the windows and a large fire heating the grand main room and its only occupant, a bald barkeep polishing colorful bottles of no doubt expensive liquors. Alexander was incredibly tempted to sample a few, but he had business to attend to, and he could drink later. He walked to the bar and sat loudly, catching the barkeep’s attention. Not waiting for the formalities to begin, he spoke, his loud voice filling the quiet tavern despite his best intentions, still used to the usually-noisy road and packed streets.
“Ere, barkeep, you ever heard of an’ organization goes by the name of…” and Alexander paused for a second to remember the name before snapping his fingers in epiphany and continuing.

“Callin’ themselves the Silver Dagger?”
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