Borbjoe
Villager
Name: Ractafar
Nickname/Alias: Borbjoe
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Height: 5'10"
Weight:160 lbs
Hair: Brown so dark it's almost black
Eyes: Green
Skin: Average caucasian tint
Identifying Marks: Hooded purple robe, almost emaciated thinness
Appearance: Not tall, but not short, generally kind, with wrinkles from his soft smile. Short cut hair, and encroaching stubble lends him the cast of an older man.
Ractafar entered the boat warily, disliking anything of Hinterlands build. While he had grown up in this ice cold environment, it wasn't any colder than the last time he had visited. And this time it wasn't on good terms. His parents had always warned him of the heavily bearded viking warriors, but the gold they proffered for his tricks was just a little too attractive. Now that had gotten him in a little too deep. The helmsman looked him up and down. "Not really what they make you out to be, are you?" Ractafar smirked underneath his hood. "If everyone was what they were said to be, your rulers would breath fire and shoot lightning from their fingertips." His fingers sparked as quick as an eye blink. "However, I'm the only Viking that can do THAT." The helmsman jumped back as Ractafar's fingers burst into full on flame. "Put that away before I make you, heathen." Ractafar's fingers doused themselves with a snap. His smirk faded. "You won't deny me my tricks, will you? What a shame. Another who doesn't appreciate the finer arts." "You'll appreciate the finer arts once the nobles are done judging you. Until then, get your robes off my boat."
Nickname/Alias: Borbjoe
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Height: 5'10"
Weight:160 lbs
Hair: Brown so dark it's almost black
Eyes: Green
Skin: Average caucasian tint
Identifying Marks: Hooded purple robe, almost emaciated thinness
Appearance: Not tall, but not short, generally kind, with wrinkles from his soft smile. Short cut hair, and encroaching stubble lends him the cast of an older man.
Ractafar entered the boat warily, disliking anything of Hinterlands build. While he had grown up in this ice cold environment, it wasn't any colder than the last time he had visited. And this time it wasn't on good terms. His parents had always warned him of the heavily bearded viking warriors, but the gold they proffered for his tricks was just a little too attractive. Now that had gotten him in a little too deep. The helmsman looked him up and down. "Not really what they make you out to be, are you?" Ractafar smirked underneath his hood. "If everyone was what they were said to be, your rulers would breath fire and shoot lightning from their fingertips." His fingers sparked as quick as an eye blink. "However, I'm the only Viking that can do THAT." The helmsman jumped back as Ractafar's fingers burst into full on flame. "Put that away before I make you, heathen." Ractafar's fingers doused themselves with a snap. His smirk faded. "You won't deny me my tricks, will you? What a shame. Another who doesn't appreciate the finer arts." "You'll appreciate the finer arts once the nobles are done judging you. Until then, get your robes off my boat."