Lucais ua Croimurtach

The Old Man

• At A Glance
  
  Name:

  Lucais ua Croimurtach

  
  Lùcais ua Croímurtach (Cree - mur – takt)
  "Lùcais of Clan Croímurtach"
  Lùcais MacTriatha [Rarely Given]
  “Lùcais, son of Triath”

  
  Nicknames: - [Highly Unwise]
  Sex: Male
  Species: Human
  Ethnicity: Scottish Highlander
  Occupation: Furrier / Goods Dealer / Tattooist
  Age: 65
  Height: 5'9
  Weight: 133lbs
  Hair: Silver
  Complexion: Sallow / Ashen / Age Spotted
  Eyes: Dark Green
  Handedness:
  Speech Patterns and Voice: A deep and rasping tone, rather old fashioned and condescending. It's clear he doesn't care for you or anyone else and you should be lucky he's even speaking to you.
  
  

  A Little Deeper

  
  
  Birthday:
  Alignment: Lawful Evil
  Ethnicity: Scottish Highlander / Fraction of Fay
  Blood Type:
  Occupation: Part-Time Witch
  Hometown: -
  Present Home: Nomadic
  Orientation and Status: Straight / Widowed
  Religion: -

• Appearance

  It is hard to imagine, but perhaps this relic was young and handsome, once. The trained eye could see that underneath the silvery hair and almost ashen, weathered old skin, he once stood tall and proud. His body had the look of a man once strong and now withered; skinny and sallow, broad shoulders like jutting wings in a permanent slouch, perhaps from years at the reigns of his cart. His gnarled hands like twigs wrapped in withered leather, his nails long and black, slightly curved and looking suspiciously sharp. They look less like human nails than the talons of a bird.
  
  There are little symbols and designs tattooed all over his hands and arms, a pale reddish color against his gray skin, parts of some even showing around his neck - although the rest are nearly always covered up, rest assured there are many more, including a tribal raven across his upper back. His ears are also pierced with bone and silver, which also shines from the rings on his hands and the knife in his belt.
  
  His nose is long and hooked, his yellowed teeth jagged and poorly kept. What’s left of them, anyway. In his youth his hair was a deep red, almost like blood shining on black. Now, the entirety of his hair, long and reaching well to the middle of his back (there is a leather hair wrap holding it in place about halfway down), has gone silver and thin; the only remaining color shows in the long braids of his mustache – his partially braided, scraggly beard, on the other hand, is entirely sapped of pigment.
  
  His dark green eyes, however, are still sharp and alert. There is no sign of mental exhaustion or dementia in this old man. His deep and rasping tone speaks with sharp tongue and mind. Yet there is clearly something very wrong about this man; you can almost see the empty soul behind his reflective stare in their deep sockets.
  
  In his hand is usually clutched a cane of twisted black hard wood that he uses to get himself around.
  
  Those gifted might see him for what he truly was: a shadow man, a boogeyman, a trickster in mortal form. This was a man with the soul of beast – that beast, that totem, croaked with the deep cry of the raven. His aura is quite poisoned and murky, a stained and wicked soul.
  
  Clothing
  
  Lucais proudly wears a long kilt in the tartan of his clan, the sporran made of black leather and heavily decorated in feathers of crows and ravens. The belt it hangs from also dangles charms of small animal skulls and suspicious tiny vials of sparkling powers, as well as a secondary belt with a sheathed knife. He's wearing tall black socks and fine heeled boots, a matching plaid was thrown over his shoulder across a black tunic. His silvery hair spills out from underneath a rather flat, black tam o'shanter. There are two raven feathers and one odd, slightly longer golden feather pinned to one side with a glossy brooch of black stone and silver.

• Personality

  Lucais is a rather unpleasant old Gael, painfully proper (although not so polite) and lawful of the "old ways", rather threatening at times and without compassion, likely absolutely black to whatever might pass for a heart in his narrow old chest. He isn't fond of socialization and next to never enters into civilization himself. Instead he sends out his nephew, Rabbit, to scout, trade, bring back supplies and information - sometimes the occasional customer. Although he really can't be called social, Lucais does crave a good conversation of intellect and is far more likely to be more inviting towards those around his age or older.
  
  The old man has very little patience for what he deems foolishness or idiocy; he cannot stand a waste of his time. Lucais has even less patience for anything that annoys or offends him. The only sense of humor he seems to have is a twisted amusement when toying with others, especially if they are easily frightened - their misfortunes are also of wonderful entertainment value.