Arthur
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Arthur stands at perhaps a inch or two below 6", his build lean and wiry. His hair, a faded brown with the occasional wisp of weathered grey, falls loosely around his neck, cut short just before it touches his shoulders. An angular, heavy face is framed within; wide, thin lips, surrounded by a thick mustache and thinner beard; a strong nose, widest in the bridge; heavy brow and jaw; sunken cheeks and dulled bags beneath sharp, bright green eyes. Tattoos, of seemingly no solid theme, are scattered sparsely across his body, most prominently the fingers of his left hand (a series of horizontal straight lines, perpendicular to a central pillar, on the beginning of each finger, just after the first knuckle) and neck (mostly hidden by clothing, but usually what looks like a crooked branch creeps up from his collarbone to just below his earlobe). The backs of his hands are scored with thin scars. Arthur's past is the usual sob story, or so he'd tell you, if you managed to get him talking about it. Born in Dublin, parents passed away early, and he spent the early days of his formative years running from various different foster homes. One day, they didn't come looking for him. From then on, it was sleeping in hooded alleyways, picking tourist's pockets and scuffling with other street kids for what little possessions he had left. Necessity demanded posturing, posturing demanded strength, and it wasn't too long until he was doing odd-jobs for local gangs, and throughout the years he found out he was quite good at it. An interest in the occult, started early by old Irish folk tales, eventually led him to the door of a particularly vicious Stormcrow, and the rest, as they say, is history. Arthur remained in Ireland for a few years after his Embrace, tied quite solidly to his sire as she used him as a disposable wrecking ball for whatever walls were put up in her way throughout the courts of the country, which earned him no small number of enemies, for those who didn't differentiate between sire and childe. Eventually, he managed to slip out of his blood bond enough to kick up a bit of a ruckus, start a few fires to misdirect, and get the hell out of Dodge, somehow managing to get to America without hitting sunlight. Since, he's travelled from city to city, trading his sword-arm for favours, never staying too long: he's quite conscious of the fact his blood has never informed him of his sire's death yet.
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