Alsten Ashvell looks out from his table at the farmers, merchants, and other sundry hangers on who have decided to gather in this particular tavern, even as he watches the rather comely catgirl waitress as she walked about, her ever swishing tail weaving an almost hypnotic pattern with very shapely firm buttocks' each sensual flick. His eyes wandered along her form and wondered if perhaps the disease had improved her form, any or if it had just made the ears and tail. Clearly Alsten had a strong appreciation for the female form, and even more for the agile, slender forms of the catgirls in the tavern.<br/><br/>Leaning back, feeling the mithril armor shift and press against him chest, as his muscles flex and shift, he can feel himself beginning to rouse as his eyes savor the sight of the catgirl's lithe form as she saunters between the tables. His dimly flickering eyes, flowing with the piercing fires of the pits put many of the peasants in the room ill at ease, his blackened armor a nonreflective plate shifting as he does. Alsten's broad shoulders leaves the small rickety chair appearing to small and ineffective as managing his bulk. Though any looking at him are unwilling to believe him a sociable person, he bears a certain presence, both dark and forboding, promising relentless retribution to those who would hide from his fiery gaze. Hanging openly from a strap on his belt, a heavy morningstar rides, each spine glinting and ready to pierce weak flesh and seek the life's blood of those who would stand against his cause. His pants are loose and almost fashionable, the knee high leather traveling boots stand matte black perhaps with too much dried blood in their past. The small curling horns sweeping back from his forehead leave little question as to his ancestry, and places much question as to his allegiance, of which there is no apparent sign. Perhaps only golden bejeweled plunder and women to ravage with the infernal equipment no doubt granted by his ancestry.<br/><br/>The rumors of the effects of the disease had not done it justice. The widespread effects, the thousands of catgirls alone and starving in the streets, the warrior-gang bands readying themselves for war within the city limits as though common bands of thugs. The guards and men of the city were clearly ineffectual and merely keeping the run of the mill day to day actions from spilling over into bloodshed and all out rioting, all in all it sickened him. His anger burned clearly in his eyes, a dull green glow casting his face in stark shadows, providing his already dark visage with the features of a nightmare's manifestation.<br/><br/>Glancing over to Yuriko, a fellow tiefling, "It's far worse than the rumors said, the disease has become more than an epidemic, it's becoming genocide." The anger in his voice reflects that in his eyes, and his hunched shoulders as he warily examines the catgirls sitting off to the side armored and ready even in their drunken carousing.