Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-11588669-20140208053126

'Winter' sipped his drink, viewing the bar with a uncaring, distatched eye from the shadows of the seat. Half the people in here could attempt to kill him, and the only emotions he'd feel were boredom, and exasperation. Maybe a bit of excitement from the combat, but otherwise, nothing.

These people were meaningless, unimportant. The mercenary snorted into his drink, and set it down. He shifted so the light flashed across his face. Regal, almost rougish princly features were set in an impassive, uncaring expression. His eyes were like black sapphire ice, cold and apathetic as the northern blizzards. His black hair, streaked with dark blue was styled shorter as to not get in the way. His dress was both casual and combat appropriate: a tight hoody, with a muscle shirt underneath and pants. Black combat boots covered his feet, and knives were in the sheathes. A pistol as at his hip, and a knife on the opposite side. A blade, a longsword, the single edge honed to a razor point, was leaning on the chair beside him. No scars or markings on the near black blade, and runic insignias were etched onto the front. But what caught most wasn't the large scar across his face, going from above his left eyebrow, through the eye, over his nose and down to his left cheek. No, what caught the eye of many were his own.

His eyes were black sapphire ice, as cold and apathetic as the northern blizzards. A dark, night blue with a slight ring of amber around the pupil. They were disconcerting in their own right, not to mention the lack of emotion shown within.

He cared not who he killed, or why. As long as it fed him and his brother, the young mercenary would kill, destroy, do almost anything. Almost. There were a few things he did not condone, but those were kept to himself and few others.

Most would be shocked that a sixteen year old could have that attitude. Some had even intervened on his contracts, citing that it was cruel and ammoral for a teenager to be doing these things.

The merc killed them, and left their bodies to rot.

Winter looked at one fool who approached him, his buddies not far behind. The man spouted out something about 'Arrogant kid-bastards who didn't know their place'. He honestly couldn't care any less if this man was a fly and flayed alive in front of him. Then the fool reached his hand out to grab Winter's throat.

The limb was slammed on the table, a large serratted knife, more akin to a dirk than anything else planted between the bones of his hand. Winter flashed a fanged, blood thirsty smile, and tore the blade out.

Then the door to the Bar opened. 