[center][h2]Rothelion[/h2]
[hider=image][img]http://i.imgur.com/ptKAR1y.png[/img][/hider][hr][b]Age[/b]: 423
[b]Gender:[/b] Male
[b]Age:[/b] 423
[b]Race:[/b] Mûl elf[hr][h3]Appearance:[/h3][/center]
[indent]Roth is an elf of eclectic tastes. Long has he abandoned the elegance and refinement his kind are typically known for. These days he favors an impact of [i]presence[/i]. When donned in full travel attire, few would immediately identify Roth to be an elf at all, mostly due to the terrifying horned skull mask obscuring his elven visage. The horns curve around his pointed ears, diminishing their prominence.

To balance macabre with prestige, Roth also typically wears a mantle of thick wolf’s fur, silken and black, which gives the illusion of broadening his narrow elven shoulders. Trailing from the mantle is a simple, rust-colored halfcape, woven from lightweight linen. The rest of him is rather drab, composed of a mix of patchwork leather armor and glimpses of chainmail.

A true elf remains concealed beneath the attire, looking roughly thirty in human years, with tawny skin and a light frame. His long, auburn hair is shaved to the scalp on one side of his head and fettered with the occasional small braid.[/indent][hr][center][h3]Personality:[/h3][/center]
[indent]Four centuries have worn Roth down to a nub, even shortening his name to a single syllable from its once lengthy (and barely pronounceable) glory. Gone are the days that Rothelion would look down his nose at [i]humans[/i] and their burly dwarven counterparts. Hell, it has to have been [i]decades[/i] since he even killed one in defense of the eastern wood. Now he lives, eats, and travels among the common races, with only a soured, vestigial regard for his own former kindred. 

The are some parts of him that of course remain unmistakably elven. Though Roth gets as drunk and violent as any human (with stunning regularity!), he still cuts a pristine image rather than grunting and farting with the rest of the tavern crowd. His speech is clean and refined, and in combat, his movements are fluid and almost dancelike. 

He’s personable to some, and intolerable to others. Maintaining a personal sense of honor and dignity, he makes friends quickly only if they’re amenable to his terms: either be respectable, or be interesting.[/indent][hr][center][h3]History:[/h3][/center]
[indent]Formerly Lebethron, Rothelion has not been back to his ancient home since he turned his back on his people’s ways, even divorcing himself from his family name, Tristuval. As far as most can tell, he’s been making his own way as a sellsword and traveling to wherever the money is. He’ll take nearly any job, so long as it isn’t despicable, either working in a group or working alone. His travels have taken him to disparate ends of the world, high and low, mundane and depraved.

Rothelion seldom brags about his experiences, but will speak of them as matter of fact when on the topic. One thing he does bring up more often than most are his dealings with cultists. Indeed his work history shows a strong preference for any job concerning rooting out, killing, and interrogating cultists. His hatred for them is remarkable.

His history before joining the ranks of the Mûl is reluctant to be made known, yet encompassing full centuries of his long life, it inescapably exists. Roth speaks little of it, but at his most drunken he will confess that in another age, he did have a wife, children, grandchildren, and so on. And despite all of his anger and self destruction suggesting that he like so many others has lost his family to some unspeakable tragedy, he’ll mention, with a shrug, that they do still live. Safe within the borders of their own insular society. 

They’re better off without him.[/indent][hr][h3]Equipment: [/h3]
[indent]♠ Long knife
♠ Rucksack containing rations, coin, what-have-you
♠ A golden ear cuff, a token of matrimony
♠ Several colored quartz stones in filigrees attached to a keyring, the different colors signifying each of his three children.
♠ Most notably, his [url=https://i.imgur.com/0iuPHsJ_d.jpg?maxwidth=640&shape=thumb&fidelity=high]bladed staff[/url], carried on his back.[/indent][hr][h3]Example post (Optional):[/h3]
[hider]"Some mask that is," the barkeep remarked nervously, keeping his tone carefully neutral as he indicated the horned skull mask on the bartop. Its empty eyes gazed menacingly up at the ceiling. Long fangs, missing a lower jaw, softly bit into nothing. "What manner o'beast does it come out of?"

"None that I know of," Roth replied with a shrug. He leaned back, nearly emptying the contents of his brass goblet, then set it down and sniffed. "It's wooden. Acquired it at a Witch's Eve festival in Trent three years back. Perhaps four? Just fancy armor, good for scaring cretins and louts, that's all." He swirled the remaining burgundy in his goblet before he downed the rest of it. "Is this [i]elven[/i] wine?"

The barkeep blinked rapidly and reassembled himself, caught off guard by Roth's critical tone. 

"W-Yes, I—I thought you'd prefer it. Is... there a problem?"

Roth twirled the goblet in his hand, admiring its simple faceted design, before setting it with finality on the bartop. Nearby, he spotted smudge of something that was certainly wasn't wine. Noting the elf's scrutiny, the barkeep was quick with a cloth to wipe it away. Rothelion, who didn't actually care either way what the barkeep did, picked up his mask and slid off of his stool.

"No, not at all." The elf gathered up his fur mantle and settled it back on his shoulders, taking extra care in fastening the straps. "Wine is one thing my race does right. It's just been awhile. Welp." Roth picked up his mask, but out of courtesy, he would wait until heading outside to clip it back on. "Thank you, for the drink. I'll be off then."

"But, sir—" The barkeep's eyes darted downward, then up. "What about the body?"

"Hn?"

Roth turned belatedly, spotting, as his furred shoulder moved out of peripheral vision, the corpse lying amid the ruins of a shattered wooden table. A robed cultist, clad in leather armor beneath curtains of gray, had found himself unprotected from the bladed staff that now had him skewered to the floor. The staff was left pointing upward into the air, unceremonious and completely apathetic to the fate of its victim. Beneath him, a thick crimson pool was soaking into the floorboards, glittering gruesomely.

"Oh, right." 

The elf stepped carefully around the corpse, very much not wanting to slip in the slick, and knocked away a jutting piece of table. He stepped onto the corpse to anchor it, then with a forceful tug, removed his weapon from the body. It was hastily cleaned on another shard of table.

"Drag it out back and burn it." He rested the bladed staff back against his shoulder. "No telling what putrid enchantments his blood is magicked with. Leave nothing for the crows. Unless you want demonic crows."

"Demonic crows?"

Rothelion found no need to elaborate, and so he let that possibility sink in as he made his way to the door. It was a winding path through overturned chairs and more tables turned on their sides. Broken glass shards littered the floor, amid long swathes of blood which striped the tavern's interior, walls to ceiling. Two severed fingers sat forgotten in the corner, along with a corner of the grimoire they had been grasping.

"Aye." Roth pulled open the door, which was already ajar. While the sunlight bathed his silhouette, he turned to survey the room obliquely. "As a matter of fact, I'd burn this whole place down, if I were you. Just to be completely safe."

The barkeep stared at him, a thin figure standing amidst the carnage of his livelihood.

"But er, I'm sure it'll be fine if you don't." Rothelion clipped on his mask and took a rasping breath through the fanged mouthguard. "Though you [i]do[/i] know how to reach me if there's more trouble. Good day."[/hider][hr][h3]Other:[/h3]
Rothelion has a heightened sense for demonic magic.