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Character profileTeagan
Currently offline Description of the character*ೃ༄ Upon first encountering the man, you'd most likely be met with a stoic expression. His deep blue eyes carrying untold profoundness, yet also having a gentle tinge to them. Though barely affording you a glance before turning away, this might all be hard to take note of in time. He might do so, in a display of disinterest, perhaps, as he runs a hand through his short dark brown hair, about a fingers length, or rubs his thumb against the well maintained stubble that covers the lower parts of his face, clearly pondering one matter or the other. He carries himself with a stiff haughtiness, back straight and shoulders held high. Yet to those attentive enough, it might be seen as unnatural. Something forced, rather than a habit. His shoulders slightly slouched, looking more relaxed, if he ever seems to think himself to be all by his lonesome. During these moments, he might even be seen sporting a rare, gentle smile as a fleeting thought crosses his mind. It is clear that this man is no athlete. What can be seen of his lean, physique, might be found to be sorely lacking, when compared to the sculpted build commonly found in the broad shouldered, muscular warriors that frequent the nearby lands. Instead, it might provide a conflicting impression, a puzzling mix of masculinity and fragility all in the same man, his tan skin speaking of days spent in the sun. His upper body is garnished with a red brocade doublet, the kind of fine clothing an aristocrat might wear, a snug row of intricate buttons tightly fastened, lending to his already rigid look. Yet, you might at times find him fidgeting with one of the buttons as if he's unused to its tightness. The perceptive may even note it looks second-hand, small hints of it and the rest of his clothing indicating these were not tailor made for him. His hands are slim, with long fingers and well kept nails. Hands that are made for refined work, not something that'd get him down and dirty. This, combined with delicate white cloth gloves adorning them, it's as if he's trying to say he is better than you. That he's too refined to get his hands dirty, to touch something deemed unclean. Still, he carries a scent of earth that betrays him, a scent of herbs that vary from day to day. Sometimes pungent, at times nearly sweet, or even with a sliver of citrus to it. His back and shoulders are draped by an ornate white cloak, covered in golden patterns. Though as he moves you can spot what's hidden underneath, a quill that has seen better days, a sickle in need of repair, a slim coin pouch that barely even clinks with the sound of metal meeting metal. Should your gaze drift down, it might come as a shock how simple his trousers and shoes are in comparison. The trousers a yellowed light brown colour, reminiscent of certain types of clay as they outline his thighs, a little looser around the legs. His leather shoes carefully taken care of, yet unable to hide their wear from long time usage, being of simple make and design. His presence might vary vastly from person to person, encounter to encounter. At times he might be seen as a gentle scholar, lost in his thoughts. By some a stifling, suffocating presence as his stoic gaze meets yours, looking haughtily down at you. Still by others his presence might just be invisible, ignoble, as you pass him by. Perhaps wondering why you even bothered sparing him a glance to begin with.
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