"It is better to be lucky, than dead."
Social Rank: 9
Concept: Luckchild Sellsword
Marital Status: Unmarried
Hair Color: grey-black
Eye Color: Brown
Description: Standing at six feet tall, though you'd never know it because the clothing is always a little too large, is a man. Go figure, right? The face is a mixture of age, and youth; age, for despite clearly being a man instead of a boy, he hasn't matured very much. Laugh-lines permeate the cheeks, and the eyes are dappled by the same, the nose having been broken once. The right eyebrow has two little lines of hair that don't grow back anymore - a strike that has left a faded scar. Near-misses dapple the skin, except the neck. The neck has a garish mark upon the right and left sides - the rough outline of what can only be a fox (or a really deformed cat) that has never quite healed right. A brand. The rest of him is boundless in energy, and his movements are erratic, constant, moving too-and-fro like waves and trees in the wind. Stumbling, likely drunk.
The hands are fast, rapid, twisting and dancing over each other and displaying almost completely black skin! Dyed by tattoos of dice, knives, and a plethora of skulls with the letter 'C' on the forehead. It continues up the forearms, vanishing into imagery of coins!
(This man moves irregularly, wobbling and weebling but he just dosn't fall down! Laughter under every breath, he smells heavy of peaches.)
Personality: Luckbearer. Golden Child. Foxfriend. Jak o' Crows. Whimsy. Hedonistic. A gambler and Fool. No one likes a braggart, but, Gods damn him...Ravna is -lucky-, and that good fortune has tainted everything about him, and his outlook on life. Light-hearted, and unable to take anything seriously - even violence - the world, life itself, has become a game, and he is rolling dice with Death...but the bastard keeps winning! In a room where everything is in its place, expect this man to enter and summarily mess it up. Or swipe a few things, that's happened more than once. SorryNotSorry.
Background: No one really knows where he comes from, just that The Cullers found him one day, a baby boy playing in the mud -- with a single gold coin. He wasn't in danger, wasn't sick, and no one was looking for him. One day, in the mud and sewage and crime-ridden streets...The Cullers adopted a Luckchild. Which sounds far too generous, because his childhood wasn't filled with just luck. Trouble-Maker, is what he was, from climbing where he shouldn't be, taking money in games from boys who were thrice his size -- and somehow always managing to find his own brothers first. Witty. Lucky. Ravna had a talent for Trouble. Always did. The guards hated it, and the Family laughed about them hating it enough to not hate him for it...until that Luck caught him the first time -- a fight turned into a brawl turned into a small riot, and it ended up with a girl being stabbed...his adoptive father, Ajus, struck his back so bad with a belt it has left permanent scars. To make matters worse, it was the first time Ravna was sent to prison, and for a year he grew there...until a cousin who knew a guy who had a guard's gambling debt cleared -- set him free. The trouble came back, without falter, for years. Mischief and mayhem. Learning how to fight with sticks as boys, turned into learning how to kill with spears, and other polearms. Learning how to slice a man open from cock-to-chin and stabbing his friend in the throat! One battle with a Sellsword company, 'The Greybacks', turned into six. Six turned into eight. Eight turned into -- well, dice came into his life, and dice left. Wine. Women. Once more, Home in the slop called to him...and once more, just a night returned...and Ravna was back in prison. One year turned to three. Three turned into an execution...and then some dolt forgot to write him down in the charter, and Ravna was set free. Again. Possessed by his own zest for life, and a feeling of divine deliverence....well, Trouble started again.
|Alessia||Probably the first Culler I've been acquainted with. A lot more vibrant than I'd expected.|
|Dianna||Can such madness be judged when it brings with it such boundless joy? He is a poet - the likes of which I've never seen or known, some thing of myth and mystery, of pain and beauty.|
|Domonico||A drunk and a scoundrel. He has the backing of one I respect though so I will hold off further judgement.|
|Drake||Lively and expressive while he's drunk. Not sure what he is like when sober.|
|Ezra||Whether he's a gambler by nature or profession you can't say but he rolls the dice more like it's affecting something larger than silver. There's enough strange things in this world to take a pause and consider whether this is just a dice game or something more. The gambler always lives in the extremes, this is dangerous with silver but moreso if not.|
|Kaia||Oh, the nerve! Sure, he may be amusing --might even be a bit charming; but, ugh, he is so... SHAMELESS! DESPICABLE! IMPRUDENT! Oh, how I despise him. What was Dianna thinking?! Ugh, and that hat! That //HAT//!!! Can it be even called a //HAT//?! This man is all that is wrong with the Lowers. I swear.|
|Mabelle||A man passionate about peaches if I've ever met one. And I do not mean metaphorically.|
|Mirk||The only person I've seen that's possibly a better fighter while drunk. Or maybe I just haven't seen him sober.|
|Orelia||This guy is a roll of the dice made flesh. You just never know what you'll get with him.|
|Raja||This drunken mess is my adopted older brother. No, seriously. We were adopted. There is no way this mess is my blood relation.|
|Sydney||He was either out of his mind on every drug I can think of, or he is as completely and utterly mad. A wonder with that staff, though, and moves in ways I ain't seen anyone move. Wonder if he has any bones at all, honestly.|