[b]Name:[/b] Ro'en Vessen
[b]Age:[/b] 29
[b]Gender:[/b] Male
[b]Description:[/b] The burly but lean individual stands at a modest height, taller than the average male but not staggeringly so. His dark brown hair is of a medium length, swept back away from his forehead and girds his face generously with a bristly mane and sideburns. His similarly coal coloured irises sheen with an unnatural gleam, especially under the shadow of his wide brimmed hat, in stark contrast to his pale almost-sickly skin.

This day he dons a suave outfit of a thin hide coat, with high collars and a swallow-tail hem. Trousers, gloves and boots all of similar material and hue. His shirt is lightly stained from the concoctions of leaked vials, many of which he has refilled and still carry. But the most prominent item on his person still remains the contraption holstered to his belt, a long, barrelled piece almost as lengthy as an arm with a wooden handle frilleegreed with metal - brass, by the looks of it. Some would recognize it as imported from the eastern lands, but even fewer would know what it did.

[b]Occupation:[/b] The Local Alchemist, owns the Raven's Knock reagent shoppe.


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Moonlight poured through fractured glass into a dusty room. The dim glow of quaintly lit candles danced across a cluttered desk, where a shivering figure hunched over with a quil in hand. Shadows flickered across the walls with every gust and the noise of paper being scratched has incessantly gone on for the past two hours, barely muffled by the cold wind that howled through the boughs of the barren trees outside., Only once in awhile did everything take on an eerie silence, when for the briefest moments he contemplated on a bloodstained spot of the floor.

It was exactly two months ago when in this very study, that a bloody battle occured, one of the monsters that this town has stood vigilantly against had made it past the walls and intruded into the privacy of a home in it's thirst for blood. It was just his rotten luck that he had built his livelihood along the outskirts far removed from the neighbourhood, thinking of only the peace and quiet he would have back then. He was warned by a wise soul on the day of construction, that such a notion would only come back and bite him one day, and it has.

Though he was one of the survivors,

  .... the trauma of what transpired continued to haunt him vividly still. He clutched his sides, fingers digging through bandages to ease the itch of still sensitive flesh as his eyes never leaves the bloody memory, the shattered furniture that surrounded the table made his imagination even more real. Even the gouge marks on the floor, he swore, sometimes still creaked like the horror that made them had just walked on it.

The door behind him creaked open, his gaze flung towards it and his breath came to a harsh stop.

"You shouldn't stay up so late, you know." A young woman, no older than twenty, with bright gold tresses and dusky night gown chided him from the doorway.

"R-rright, erm, Mari. Just in time." He raised the back of his hand to let out a civillized and covered cough, shaking off the gurgle in his throat. "-!.... I've put you as the proprietor of our shop."

He watched quietly for a long while as she stood unmoving, apparently gathering her wits for a reply. 

"You'll be running our store." Concerned that she did not understand, he simplified his sentence along with a very quizzical look.

"...are you inf---" She started to ask. 

He quickly raised his hand, cutting her off mid sentence. "Yes." He nodded, she put her hand to her mouth. Marijiole had grown sharp of mind, hopefully in part due to his tutelage but no doubt, in time, would too make a fine alchemist in her own right. ...This, this was just something he rather not confide, not tonight.

Closing the door she saw, in the corner of her eye, the fleeting glint of a single polished silver dagger.
[/hider]