<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://www.dfwd20.com/photopost/data/522/medium/Human_Fighter1.jpg)</td><td><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>Approaching Front Lawn of Avonleigh</em><br/></strong><hr/>And behold, a rough rider approaches from the road furthest to the south, sitting tall in the saddle of a tremendous warhorse that could pound stones into dust with his great hooves.  Truly, the giant centaur-like unison of man and beast were astonishing in due part of their magnitude and seeming ferociousness, for neither appeared the least bit friendly.  But as the rider and his horse neared the assembly, the soldier gradually undertook a new countenance:  it progressed from the masked veil of insanity of a man desiring nothing more than to smite, to an austere appearance that caged the passions of the rider.<br/><br/>His jade and jaded eyes took in the men and women gathered outside, his brow heavy and casting shadows over his dangerous visage.  He stared for another moment, at times even openly admiring (it would only be more carnal if he held his member in his hand as he did it) several members, before he tossed his reins aside and dismounted his horse.<br/><br/> "Tidings," he said in a precise, booming voice, to no one and everyone.   "I am Alfreic Slate, previous acquaintance of the household."  His terrible eyes settled on no one, but his presence!  Haunting and gaunt, dismissive and accusatory, that damned presence of his directed his words personally.</td></tr></tbody></table>