<strong>Name:</strong>Bitter Quip<br/><strong>Class:</strong>Hellion (M)<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><hr/>When the man had eagerly joined on for the ride, he had had to practically crawl into the carriage, due to his prodigious height. A few inches over six feet tall made for a cramped ride, and while the carriage might hold many, the bulky man easily took up two seats--as much do to his size as his stance. Territorial; domineering. Wild, ratty fire-red hair, shoulder length, was all in a mess, having never seen a comb in its life; only the occasional shearing by knife. The fire of his hair seemed to compliment the smoke-gray eyes with which he surveyed the others; eyes appraising, hardened.<br/><br/>Crudely tanned leathers covered most of his frame, and fur padding was here and there, but in a disjointed, asymmetrical fashion. Crude armor like this had been stitched up, and was as motley as it was ragged; serving little more purpose than to provide modesty, warmth, and a tinge of safety. Scarred muscles bulged underneath. The Hellion was no stranger to hard times, and hard fights--one only needed to look at him to understand it. Even the glaive he had stowed away, for such a thing could not be kept within the carriage, was a motley thing. Chipped, cracked, repaired; made from scrap metals. Serration along the tip had given the weapon a particularly vicious appearance, and the old, yet firm, hardwood that made up the haft--bound in some places in stained cloth, for better gripping--also had rough, iron rings affixed to it, to strengthen it against cracking. The end cap on the butt was of a similar type of pig iron, roughly shod and put into place, so that a smack from it might go so far as to knock a man out, should it connect with the head.<br/><br/>Tattoos adorned the Hellion's face. Blue ink that contrasted against paler skin. A crescent moon on the left cheek; a sun on the right. But, most quaint and frightening of all was the one inked into the flesh of his forehead. A serpent, coiling in on itself, devouring its own tail. For those more familiar with the barbaric tribes his kind hailed from, this identified him as belonging to the Jormungandr clan. They were few in number, but fierce. Rumors about them spoke of cannibalism, and blood rites under new moons. Like many such tall tales, such things were often wrong; either outright, or in a matter of exaggeration. But the cock-sure, crooked grin on his face did nothing to alleviate any anxieties anyone might have.<br/><br/>An expression occasionally broken, as the cart made its way along winding roads that had seen better days.