<div align="center"><strong>Corann Character Post</strong></div><br/><strong>Time of day beginning post: </strong>Noonish<br/><strong>Time of day ending post:</strong>Noonish<br/><strong>Location beginning post:</strong>Seaside Sal's<br/><strong>Location ending post: </strong>Bold Bison Inn<br/><strong>Characters currently interacting with: </strong>Sol\Nemea\Rianna<br/><strong>GM Intervention Request\Required? (Yes/no):</strong>No.<br/><br/>Corann’s tapered ears twitched within the nest of his silken off-white hair at the sound of the newcomer walking into the Bison Inn. He could sense something there, in the presence, something off – it felt familiar, like a song he knew sung in an entirely different cord. It took a surprising amount of effort not to turn and look and instead face both Nemea and Sol with his cocksure smile still plastered into place. A quick glance would show that the smile was no longer as effortless as it was before.<br/><br/>At Nemea’s gesturing, Corann turned slowly to take the woman in. The over-sized Chosen didn’t bother hiding that he was looking; in his culture, sex was a subject approached without shyness and appreciation was given for prowess of all sorts frankly. Of course, among his people, non-Chosen were also considered non-people, so seeing someone of Rianna’s figure wearing a sword and smelling of power that somehow reminded him of his own kind, was a bit of a shock to the youth.<br/><br/>“Please excuse me for one second,” Corann said, his voice still of the merriment and innocence that had dominated it until now. He stood, the motion smooth and no longer ringing with whatever bells he’d had attached to his posterior. Towering over the table, he exchanged  a brief look with Namea that said something along the lines of ‘Watch my back. This isn’t a social call.’ He glanced over at Sol too, but the jerk of his eyes was barely that. Sol’s recalcitrance to embrace the life that Corann was born into was an oddity to him and the woman’s posture and demeanor were fascinating; on the other hand, he knew what he’d been born to do.<br/><br/>Presenting a broad back and narrow waist to the table he was talking away from, Corann approached Rianna’s table. As bold as a knock on a door, he pressed his hands flat on the table she sat at, subtly emphasizing both his size and nature as a Chosen; those hands were oversized, perfect to wield the sword that sat on his back. In addition to the half-dozen or so visible weapons strapped elsewhere on his body. His canted, cat-slit eyes, silver and blue irises gleaming, clashed horribly with his too-bright green shirt, sun-yellow pants and bright purple waistband. The metal of his chain armor, resting tightly over the shirt and numerous weapons, however, contrasted the tragically comical colors of the rest of his clothes starkly, somehow emphasizing the disconnect between the seven-foot-tall warrior.<br/><br/>“You aren't of my kind, yet I detect their touch on you. Forbidden knowledge, perhaps.” Corann said, his tones starkly serious and his face, normally unlined by concerns or pessimism, had folded into a deep frown.<br/><br/><strong>GM Note: </strong>Being trained in Melk, Rianna would know that the vast majority of the Chosen live in Durus, far to the south of Accord. It’s possible that Corann hasn’t heard of outsiders being trained in Melk. It is also possible that he simply hasn’t considered the fact that she has, or that he’s just being an ass. Something in his face suggests that it isn’t his nature to be needlessly mean, though.<br/>