Description
Mask
To mortal eyes, Ser Alric appears as a pale, gaunt man in his late thirties with a soldier’s posture and an ever-solemn demeanor. His light eyes seem old and heavy with experiences no young man should bear. His movements are precise, deliberate, and tinged with quiet restraint, the kind of person who commands presence even in silence. His clothing is always formal, if slightly outdated: sturdy boots, long dark coat, and gloves, even in milder weather.
If you were ever to view him with out long sleeves, or a shirt you would see across his body the scars of whips, knifes, stab marks and other things. While his face is haunting perfect the rest of his body is a mangled contortion of healed scar tissue.
Mein
Alric’s true form is that of an elegant statue given life — his skin smooth and dark as polished obsidian, streaked with faint silver veinslike frost fractals under glass His eyes glow faintly with a cold blue luminescence, and the edges of his form seem shift subtly with the sharp, clean geometry of carved stone. His voice has the heavy, resonant tone of hollow marble, and his breath is visible as pale mist no matter the season.
His eyes are never blinking. Always watching, taking in the sights and preparing himself for the worst.
He normally has a longsword belted on his hip. And his shield slung across his back. The weight of both seeming to be ever heavy and a toil for one who carries them.
Public Effects
Winter Mantle 3:
The air chills perceptibly around Alric even indoors, and falling snowflakes sometimes seem to gather near him unnaturally before drifting away. His presence carries the subtle weight of a cold silence — like standing before a grave, or a forgotten battlefield. When he draws his sword, the world feels briefly muffled, as if the Winter Court’s sorrow is folding itself over the moment.
