Height; 6'1" Weight; surprisingly heavy Visual; Young-looking and handsome, built like a dancer but the kind of dancer who could potentially fuck you up. Ethnically mixed; his PB is Senegalese-Vietnamese, but neither of those places exist in Bas-Lag, and the Brucolac has no idea what went into his making, as it were. His most notable feature is his long, thick, rather wild dark hair. He has magic facial hair which he generally keeps neatly trimmed, and a fine network of scars which cover his entire body, but which are so delicate it's hard to see them save by firelight, which shows them up. He's not human; he's got a weird long forked tongue, creepy eyes and pointed dark claws for nails.
Also freckles.
In game alterations:
+ As of February, he began wearing thin ornamental braids in his hair in the style of the Northern wildlings of the Drabwurld. + Also as of February, he has mismatched eyes, which he doesn't seek to hide too often. The left is his original dark brown-black eye with normal circular pupil, prone to flashing red or gold in light, but the right is a bright gold colour with a cat's slit pupil. + What with the slow enhancement of his shadow magic, he now tends to trail illogical shadows rolling at his heels. + He has a white snake tattoo along his right arm which is only visible in moonlight. + On the back of his right hand (in the crook of the snake's neck, when it's visible) is a neat black circular design, abstract and unpleasant to look at, somehow suggesting multiple eyes or mouths or wings in ways which are difficult to parse.
Fashion; The Brucolac is a neat dresser, preferring plain dark styles, well-cut and of good fabric. He wears tunics and leggings or breeches and doublets, usually long-sleeved and high-necked things, and very sturdy boots. Though he doesn't feel the cold, he is usually seen wearing layers and a cloak and occasionally furs—purely for the reason that many of his citizens, living as they do in the frozen North, have made warm clothing fashionable in Srathmarbh. Special occasions may see him in slightly more ornate outfits; he has no fear of androgyny, and doesn't at all mind flowing robes and skirts on such occasions. He also has some lightweight black plate armour made of metal with an oily dark sheen, which looks rather scaly and slippery. Most notable about his armour are his clawed gauntlets.
He wears a chain about his neck, on which is a set of dogtags, a large key and a small glass vial. These are always kept beneath his clothing. On his wrist is a very battered and thin red ribbon, tied too tight to come off, one end singed and threadbare.
Demeanour; The Brucolac moves with the attitude of one who knows where he's going; he takes long, loping strides, does multiple things at once, and is often seen in the centre of a bustle but rarely moves frantically. (When he's really in a rush, he moves too quick to be seen). When he thinks, however, he drums his fingers, and plays with strips of shadow which his magic allows him to manipulate. When he's nervous, he ups the fearsome ante, stops all fidgeting and moves quicker, as if charging towards whatever he's anxious about will make it more scared of him than he is of it. Ultimately, the best way to deduce his mental state from his body language is to look at his tongue, which is as truthful as a cat's tail; when he's in a good mood, comfortable with the people he's with, he lets it loll out; uncomfortable over-formality will see him keeping it behind his teeth; when he's nervous he flicks it in and out, tastes the air over and over; anger usually ends with him rolling it out as a kind of scare tactic.
Aural; A scratchy, whispery half-voice born of a permanently fucked-up set of vocal cords; he's prone to sibilance and generally sounding like A Creepy Villain. He certainly has some kind of accent, but it's difficult to pin down under all that rasping, and it twinges all over the place; former denizens of Earth might recognise occasional inflections that sound vaguely Australian, or Irish, or South African. It is, of course, none of these, being a jumble of accents picked up from his world back home over the course of centuries.
The Brucolac swears. He swears with great relish and great ingenuity, and considers it one of his finest features. He is not at all without an ear for the poetic, and his speech is often flamboyant, but he wastes no time with such things when there's important, time-sensitive information to be imparted.
Olfactory; Strong soap and sea-salt, and a touch of coppery blood. Those who can scent these things can immediately tell he's a walking dead body.
no subject
Height; 6'1"
Weight; surprisingly heavy
Visual; Young-looking and handsome, built like a dancer but the kind of dancer who could potentially fuck you up. Ethnically mixed; his PB is Senegalese-Vietnamese, but neither of those places exist in Bas-Lag, and the Brucolac has no idea what went into his making, as it were. His most notable feature is his long, thick, rather wild dark hair. He has magic facial hair which he generally keeps neatly trimmed, and a fine network of scars which cover his entire body, but which are so delicate it's hard to see them save by firelight, which shows them up. He's not human; he's got a weird long forked tongue, creepy eyes and pointed dark claws for nails.
Also freckles.
In game alterations:
+ As of February, he began wearing thin ornamental braids in his hair in the style of the Northern wildlings of the Drabwurld.
+ Also as of February, he has mismatched eyes, which he doesn't seek to hide too often. The left is his original dark brown-black eye with normal circular pupil, prone to flashing red or gold in light, but the right is a bright gold colour with a cat's slit pupil.
+ What with the slow enhancement of his shadow magic, he now tends to trail illogical shadows rolling at his heels.
+ He has a white snake tattoo along his right arm which is only visible in moonlight.
+ On the back of his right hand (in the crook of the snake's neck, when it's visible) is a neat black circular design, abstract and unpleasant to look at, somehow suggesting multiple eyes or mouths or wings in ways which are difficult to parse.
Fashion; The Brucolac is a neat dresser, preferring plain dark styles, well-cut and of good fabric. He wears tunics and leggings or breeches and doublets, usually long-sleeved and high-necked things, and very sturdy boots. Though he doesn't feel the cold, he is usually seen wearing layers and a cloak and occasionally furs—purely for the reason that many of his citizens, living as they do in the frozen North, have made warm clothing fashionable in Srathmarbh. Special occasions may see him in slightly more ornate outfits; he has no fear of androgyny, and doesn't at all mind flowing robes and skirts on such occasions. He also has some lightweight black plate armour made of metal with an oily dark sheen, which looks rather scaly and slippery. Most notable about his armour are his clawed gauntlets.
He wears a chain about his neck, on which is a set of dogtags, a large key and a small glass vial. These are always kept beneath his clothing. On his wrist is a very battered and thin red ribbon, tied too tight to come off, one end singed and threadbare.
Demeanour; The Brucolac moves with the attitude of one who knows where he's going; he takes long, loping strides, does multiple things at once, and is often seen in the centre of a bustle but rarely moves frantically. (When he's really in a rush, he moves too quick to be seen). When he thinks, however, he drums his fingers, and plays with strips of shadow which his magic allows him to manipulate. When he's nervous, he ups the fearsome ante, stops all fidgeting and moves quicker, as if charging towards whatever he's anxious about will make it more scared of him than he is of it. Ultimately, the best way to deduce his mental state from his body language is to look at his tongue, which is as truthful as a cat's tail; when he's in a good mood, comfortable with the people he's with, he lets it loll out; uncomfortable over-formality will see him keeping it behind his teeth; when he's nervous he flicks it in and out, tastes the air over and over; anger usually ends with him rolling it out as a kind of scare tactic.
Aural; A scratchy, whispery half-voice born of a permanently fucked-up set of vocal cords; he's prone to sibilance and generally sounding like A Creepy Villain. He certainly has some kind of accent, but it's difficult to pin down under all that rasping, and it twinges all over the place; former denizens of Earth might recognise occasional inflections that sound vaguely Australian, or Irish, or South African. It is, of course, none of these, being a jumble of accents picked up from his world back home over the course of centuries.
The Brucolac swears. He swears with great relish and great ingenuity, and considers it one of his finest features. He is not at all without an ear for the poetic, and his speech is often flamboyant, but he wastes no time with such things when there's important, time-sensitive information to be imparted.
Olfactory; Strong soap and sea-salt, and a touch of coppery blood. Those who can scent these things can immediately tell he's a walking dead body.
Etc;