KITCHEN GUN

Through a Wayward Glimmer -- to a Faraway Place

A gradually loudening array of footsteps. Flapping and crinkling sounds of a held pamphlet.
Heartbeats. Loud, thumping heartbeats.

A hunched ominous figure emerges onto the assembly hall, draped in a tattered black cloak that seemed stolen straight from Death's Robes themselves. The creature breathes heavy, its glass eyes gleaming white with a readiness to cause havoc. His right hand raises--

"Huff... Shit."

Ludwig scratches his head of hair, seemingly being too late or too early to the assembly.

Glancing further, he notices a bearded man sleeping on the floor. Ludwig walks towards him, facing the poster in his hand towards him.

"Hey. Hey, you. Did people already assemble, or are you the only one who cared to attend this?" _@Rekkuza

Through a Wayward Glimmer -- to a Faraway Place

Who: Ludwig, a courier. 26 years old.

Appearance: Tall. Brown-orange hair. A horizontal scar under his chin from stumbling as a child.
Leather hydrophobic visor cap, thick-rimmed eyeglasses, tattered black half-cape and scarf fabric, thin grey gambeson with several leather pouches, a roomy bean-shaped leather slingbag, leather gauntlets, leather waistbelt with more pouches, right-thigh leather strap with yet another pouch, grey wooly pants with leather knee padding, leather boots.
All the leather parts are black. The scarf reaches up to his nose, and with the visor, only his eyes are visible, if barely due to the glasses.

KITCHEN GUN Patented Clipart Rendition

Bio: Time. Space. Reality. It's more than a linear path. It's a prism of endless possibility, where a single choice can branch out into infinite realities.
Two decades ago.
Therein lies the still bodies of the patriarch of the Morsanquist family, along with his wife, their heads either drowning in their supper plates or cracked open by the porcelain flooring. This is how it always goes, a full month after the young Ludwig discovers the atrocities committed under the Morsanquist name, to further their magical strength.
Instead of assuming the family's helm, sometimes the young boy runs away from everything, cutting the higher ends of sorcery and vast wealth out of his life forever. This is one of those times.
Present day.
As a freelance courier, he's not privy to whatever he delivers, as long as he is paid to do it. Looks like this time is no different. Nothing short of obvious poison, to be delivered to Lady Miralys of Blackthorn. Do a job enough times and you start to notice things, like a stranger in the wrong city (an obvious proxy) filling your pocket sizably as they hand you a package wrapped so securely and air-tight, with them urging you to be very careful with it to a degree only matched by people whose parcel is a wine bottle.
It's funny, there seems to be miscommunication among these orchestrators of assassination... or maybe someone simply beat the client to the punch. Hard to know for certain.

Skills: Fast runner. Like, really fast. Like he can match the pace of most horses. The secret? Long leaping strides.
Great at avoiding attacks and surviving on limited rations.
Has a nasty Tiger Knee attack, and a good throwing arm. Terrible boxer.
Basic life skills, maybe.

Through a Wayward Glimmer -- to a Faraway Place

Hider

Who: Ludwig, a courier. 26 years old.

Appearance: Tall. Brown-orange hair. A horizontal scar under his chin from stumbling as a child.
Leather hydrophobic visor cap, thick-rimmed eyeglasses, tattered black half-cape and scarf fabric, thin grey gambeson with several leather pouches, a roomy bean-shaped leather slingbag, leather gauntlets, leather waistbelt with more pouches, right-thigh leather strap with yet another pouch, grey wooly pants with leather knee padding, leather boots.
All the leather parts are brown. The scarf reaches up to his nose, and with the visor, only his eyes are visible, if barely due to the glasses.

Bio: Time. Space. Reality. It's more than a linear path. It's a prism of endless possibility, where a single choice can branch out into infinite realities.
Two decades ago.
Therein lies the still bodies of the patriarch of the Morsanquist family, along with his wife, their heads either drowning in their supper plates or cracked open by the porcelain flooring. This is how it always goes, a full month after the young Ludwig discovers the atrocities committed under the Morsanquist name, to further their magical strength.
Instead of assuming the family's helm, sometimes the young boy runs away from everything, cutting the higher ends of sorcery and vast wealth out of his life forever. This is one of those times.

Present day.
As a freelance courier, he's not privy to whatever he delivers, as long as he is paid to do it. Looks like this time is no different. Nothing short of obvious poison, to be delivered to Lady Miralys of Blackthorn. Do a job enough times and you start to notice things, like a stranger in the wrong city (an obvious proxy) filling your pocket sizably as they hand you a package wrapped so securely and air-tight, with them urging you to be very careful with it to a degree only matched by people whose parcel is a wine bottle.
It's funny, there seems to be miscommunication among these orchestrators of assassination... or maybe someone simply beat the client to the punch. Hard to know for certain.

Skills: Fast runner. Like, really fast. Like he can match the pace of most horses. The secret? Long leaping strides.
Great at avoiding attacks and surviving on limited rations.
Has a nasty Tiger Knee attack, and a good throwing arm. Terrible boxer.
Basic life skills, maybe.

Migrating to CHAR...

This sink is filthy, but just 3 BIG SHOTS FROM [KITCHEN GUN]

And it sparkles like new!

_{old-ass meme alert}