Name: Don Rossetti<br/>Age: 33 (Apparent), real age unknown<br/>________________________________<br/><br/>Don jerked upright, sweating hard and with is face contorted with rage. Somehow the way his lips curled in an almost bestial snarl made his face look almost more terrifying. He breathed hard, eyes blinking fast until her face finally sank back into the dark where it belonged. He glanced over at a mirror, a horribly scarred face staring right back. It was his morning ritual, the reminder that even though he only ever saw her in dreams, the mark she left was very real. He had dreamt about his long dead wife, the woman whose dying curse had left him the mangled mess he was to this day.<br/><br/>He turned to swing his legs off the mattress, a mechanical motion. One that showed he cared not for the waking world, yet still found it more desirable then what sleep brought. He walked over to his wardrobe, opening it wide as he began to don the trappings that befitted his station as the lord of this realm, not that anyone ever noticed what he wore. Their eyes never stayed on him for longer than took to notice the scars glaring back, then all they saw were his boots. As he tied the top of his shirt closed, he glanced down at a calendar lying on his personal desk. The year mattered not to him, they were just an unending series of numbers anyway. What mattered was how long it had been, 997 years since this curse began.<br/><br/>He took in a long, deep breath, turning to the doorway. He let it out slowly before starting for the portal, ready to start yet another innumerable day governing this realm. He was greeted at the door by his personal steward, the one man who dared look him in the face. Of course, one gets used to seeing horrible things given enough exposure. Dealing with Don’s face every day had helped the man build up a certain immunity, the way a coroner does not flinch from the grotesque nature of death. The man had a name, not that Don bothered to try and remember. Many had occupied his job, and many more would follow him. They were nothing more than an endless sea of faces.<br/><br/>Without a single word to the steward, Don turned and started his brisk pace down the hall. His steward had to nearly jog to keep up, but nonetheless kept in stride with his lord. “Reports?” Don spoke his first word of the day. His voice carried down the hall, the heads of other servants turning quickly to him, and then twice as quickly away.<br/>“Yes my lord, three reports of bandit attacks along the highways. And a single report of raiders on the outskirts.” The steward replied curtly.<br/>“Send a battalion of the guard to the next town along the roads to head off the raiders and letters to the local militias offering material support.” The lord replied quickly, going over what he had to spare in his mind. “Finances?” He requested the next set of reports, the steward replying with a list of villages that had and hadn’t paid their dues.  He had a smirk on his face as he asked for the next piece of business. “Visitors?” He asked, expecting the usual answer of no. There hadn’t been a visitor to his seat of power in years, the rumors of his imposing, terrifying visage spread quickly.<br/>“Yes,” the steward replied, earning a genuine look of shock on the lord’s face. Don turned to the steward, stopped in his tracks by the shocking news. “A man came this morning. He said he had business with you alone. He is waiting in the study”<br/><br/>Don turned slowly back around, his pace cautious but steady as he continued on towards the study. A visitor was most unusual; whoever it was must have either courage to spare or the devil at his heels to resort to coming here. He threw open the massive wooden doors leading to his study, hands feeling the cool metal of the silvered handles. He strode in, letting his voice carry across the sizable room to the meek looking man sitting in front of his desk nervously. “So… what business do you have that is so urgent you would dare waste my time.” He said with a firm, steady voice. He walked around to the other side of the desk, placing his palms on the top and glaring at the man.