Ritter Albrecht von Schwarz was not well known as a merry man when he still drew breath, so broody, distant, and silent. That was not to say that he had no charm, far from it; when he so desired, he could easily be quite pleasant, leaving others feeling rather fond of the Austrian knight. This, combined with his natural good looks, meant that if he had not been born a cadet far down the rungs, he might have gone quite far in high society. But it did not change the fact that his good-nature had always been an affectation, for he was a man who loved and trusted few, and could have gone as well without the rest of mankind as a farmer could with the chaff of his harvest.<br/><br/>Becoming an undead abomination, cursed to yearn for the blood of mortals and survive only through their suffering, hadn't helped much in that regard.<br/><br/>von Schwarz's head is hung beneath the dull cloak that adorns him, yet his eyes are cast up like a wolf gazing hungrily upon a far-off deer from the high grass. His eyes are dark brown, though lighter than his hair, and to one side of his lips, drawn taut, is a scar that reaches the beginning of his chin almost to the edge of his nose, a feral edge to this dour character. His horse trots forward at a measured pace, as though its rider does not care to make any haste for those who have strained to prepare for his arrival. Upon his chest, partly obscured by his cloak, is his tabard, displaying a black lion upon a golden background as it rears upon its haunches, its mane billowing about its head as it reaches out with dreadful dark claws and bares fiercesome fangs.<br/><br/>His dark eyes fall upon Wulf as he wordlessly scans the fortification, but he does not see fit to give him the courtesy of a greeting, instead waiting for the squire to take his horse's reins and lead it to the stables as is his duty. Only after the squire takes a few paces forward does he speak, in German, "From where do you hail, boy?" von Schwarz's accent betrays the fact that von Schwarz came from nowhere near Mainz, if the squire did not know already of the Ritter's origins. As he awaits Wulf's answer, his grim eyes fix upon the lad's countenance, trying to judge his character. No, this squire is grave, much like himself (only alive), not at all like Thomas, amiable Thomas, kind Thomas. It was for the better, anyway. Happiness had always seemed to be a symptom of idiocy as far as Albrecht could tell, and he could not tolerate a moron as his right-hand and lifeline to the Teutonic Order. This might not work out so terribly, after all.