It was very easy to mistake Atrius for a simple shepard.  He was tall and burly with rustic leather clothing.  His arms were a boot dagger, a sturdy, well balanced staff, and humble bow in a sheepskin quiver.  His long raven black pony tail rustled in the wind off of the moonsea.  The slightly olive tone t his well tanned skin was a bit hard to place, but his accent was local enough, if provincial.  He was probably a product of mixed ethnicity from a small sheparding community in the many hills or mountains of the moonsea region.  The eyes that regarded the guards as they approached were like a brooding storm, grey in some lights, rich, dark blue in others.  He wore soft leather walking boots and a long blue homesun tunic with a sheepskin vest, with a sturdy woolen cloak paced away in his pack.<br/><br/>Indeed, Atrius was a shepard, but there was nothing simple about him.  As he stood in line, one arm was wrapped comfortably around the tiny waist of an elfmaid—not a conquest or lover a simple man would easily acquire.  His sharp and discerning eyes revealed the intelligence that permitted him to  master the arcane secrets contained in the tome in his backpack.<br/><br/>Atrius was the star pupil of Amerius Elfkin, a master of staves, a defender of his people, and—most recently—winner of the heart—and maidenhood!--of his teacher's younger half sister.<br/><br/>As they grew nearer to the front of the line, Atrius noted the competent looking elf standing by the wall, searching the adventurers with his eyes. His own grey eyes caught the elf's.  He raised a hang in greeting, then—upon getting his attention, called over in the elves native tongue, “Well met, warrior. Do you intend to venture into the ruins alone?  My love and I would fair better with an extra blade at our side.