[center][b]Derrix “Nightbane” Herchiv[/b][/center]


	An extremely tall man by the name of Derrix “Nightbane” Herchiv had been planted in a rough wooden booth of the tavern for a while. Stacks of paper with ink black letters adorning the crisp pages were laid in a neat pile while his nimble fingers brushed a quill along a fresh piece. He sat straight, like a soldier at attention as his muscular and rather large arms moved with his deft hands to quickly and expertly summon the words from his mind onto the paper. Raw scars spiderwebbed from underneath the fringes of his blue cotton tunic’s short sleeves and stretched all the way to his calloused fingertips.

	By the soft glow of lanterns and candle light, his adult yet still youthful face glew as it stared at the paper with unbroken concentration. Strange golden eyes that stared from the scar covered face of the square jawed poet stabbed the paper with a piercing gaze. Two bulls horns were tattooed against his red cut covered cheeks, one on each side, pointing up in black color into to his bright eyes and short dark hair. 

	Not a smile or frown twitched his still lips as he concentrated. He barely moved and his thick muscles only tightened and relaxed with each letter he gracefully drew onto the paper. Behind his concentrated eyes were whispers of a weary man, or perhaps just a tired soldier. 

	Whatever gasps and whispers may softly emit from his seemingly glowing visage, he was known only by those who saw him as a poet, or the quiet man who just took his own time at the beat of his own silent drum. He was too large and extraordinarily fit for anyone to bother, and too quiet and introverted for anyone to have a reason to. 

	With a loud unsuspected crash the candelier tumbled to the floor loudly. A stray chip of its shattered remains flew through the air and knocked his small vial of ink over. The black liquid oozed out of the glass vial and slowly blotted out his paper he had been writing on. He seemed to stare at it in disbelief for a moment before slowly collecting his untouched papers and folding them into a small satchel. 

	The bench creaked softly as it was relieved of his weight and he stood up, his broad shoulders catching the light of the lanterns. With a stoic expression he studied the strange scene before him; an energetic pirate woman and an older paladin hashing out deals. 

	He raised a scar covered palm now wet with spilt ink and in a deep and commanding voice he spoke, almost in an annoyed monotone, “you spilt my ink.”