[hider=Riker Fretson]
[center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/GOFtbrQ.png[/img]

[img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/180608/10dd45bf8dd24c7bf83786cf02a179ec.png [/img][/center]

General:
Name: Riker "Two Cloak", "Half Bred Devil", "Three-Eye"(An old Gang Nickname rarely used), Fretson
Race: Half Elf, Father Elf, Mother Human
Age: 57
Appearance: 
Riker dresses how you might expect someone who doesn't what to be noticed. He often wears loose clothing to facilitate ease of movement, normally made of darker colors, often shades of grey and blacks as well as browns. Riker's thin frame is usually broken by the cloak for his most common alias. The cloak itself has a simple dark brown that doesn't pull any attention, the underside of the reversible garment is a patchwork of shades of greys and blacks that turn aside the eye and destroy the silhouette of anyone in the shadows. Riker is not an imposing man at a glance with his slightly shorter than average human height and slender build but often is unsettling to be around due to his shifts from abrasive to quiet and polite seemingly without provocation, as well as, his scarred face from his time in The Pits. Riker keeps his teeth nice and white, of course, they aren't his at all. His teeth were knocked out long ago when he was in The Pits and since then he has started to collect the teeth of victims and turn them into morbid dentures. He has a number of sets ranging from normal if not too clean, to horrifying inhuman maws of all canines or even the teeth of animals. 

Personal:
Biography: 

[hider=A Generous Stranger]
	Hector sat at a table all alone in a dingy Grey District bar and flop house. He'd gotten there yesterday. He didn't even remember the name of the damned place. He had fled from the Red District after he overheard some Dwarven fancy type talking about a back room deal while he was in his cups, and, well, with his hand most of the way down some bawdy bitch's gown. That damned  drunk had seen him, even sicked his guards on him. Hector had managed to lose them in the twisting alleys and tightly packed buildings. Now here he was, stuck in this flea ridden shit pile. Hector hoped the dwarf's guards hadn't gotten a good look at him or hadn't been smart enough to ask the sheet girls about him. He had been a cook in the Red for most of his life, known around that area. He cursed under his breath. If he could make it to someone who would pay for the information he would be set for life, for now, he just needed to keep his head down. 

	The harried man's eyes shot wide and up as he heard the scrape of a chair. He nearly jumped out of his damned skin as a man sat down across from him with a bottle of wine and two cups. Hector's heart hammered as his looked at the half elf with the scarred face who had just invited himself to his table. He didn't feel like talking, but, the man had brought a bottle of wine and Hector was low on stones and in need of a stiff drink. The man smiled at him. Hector had to suppress a shiver. The damned half breed seemed to smile only with the bottom half of his face, eyes still staring fixedly on his own. Not just the eyes though. People who lived in the Grey didn't have teeth that white, and, Hells, they didn't have that many, did they? 

	"You look like you could use a cup o'reds, eh?" Hector's guest said, ending his awful grin much to Hector's silent gratitude. 

	"Do you often wander up to strangers and offer to give them free drinks?" he asked, naturally suspicious.

	"I fancy a good story and have jaw with people who look like they need a listen," the stranger replied without hesitation. He poured the two cups to the brim. He passed one of the cups to to Hector with a deft slide. The cup stopped right in front of him. The move made Hector think of some of the barkeeps he had known.

	He picked up the offered cup and raised it, the man mirrored his wordless toast. In a single gulp, Hector had drained the cup. He set down his wine and let out a long breath, "That's not swill," he said with a chuckle.

	The stranger laughed, giving Hector a look at those seemingly glittering teeth of his, "Not a bit, m'friend, not a bit. When I come to offer a drink I make sure it something good and maybe even something they haven't tried."

	Hector looked down at his empty cup, "It had something earthy and woody to it, yeah?"

	The man gave him a thankfully closed mouthed smile and nodded. Hector passed the cup back and it was refilled and returned, along with the bottle. Hector shrugged and looked at the bottle. The glass was a deep blue turning the fine red inside a strange purple that cast little ghostlights on the table around them. He took another sip of his refilled cup and looked up at the scarred half elf. The man was just watching him an odd kind of appreciation on his narrow face. The half breed stayed silent for a moment before he finally raised a brow at him in question.

	"Apologies," Hector said with a shake of his head, "I just had a bit of trouble, yeah?" he chuckled, "I was wonderin' if you were Two Cloak or some kind of crawler come to drag me a'hell for my crimes."

	The man's eyes seemed to glitter with excitement, but, he did not laugh. Instead he spoke. His voice betrayed a queer excitement and had pitched lower, "I knew Two Cloak. Met him ages ago back in The Pits when he was still a Grey Rat serving time chained a'pick f'stealin' or killin', don't recall which."

	Hector scoffed, "Oh, I've had it with that scrap. Everyone an'their dog's known Two Cloak it seems, at least down here and in Reds. I bet he isn't even real. He's just some kind of spook people can blame things on."

	"He's real," the half breed said with a shake of his head, "I knew him, knew him well, yeah? I was chained right next t'him for his whole stent in The Pits. We talked an'swung pick at rock all day long. He was chained t'me and t'an old apothecary who started drippin' herbcraft in his ears. That's 'ow he learned his poisons. We both got out ten years ago, well, 'cept that herb mixer. He died down with t'rocks." his raised one gloved hand and swore, "I swear it truth, I wager my life if'n I'm a liar, eh?"

	Hector drank from his cup again, he really hadn't tasted anything like this wine before, "You tellin' me he's real? Not only he's real but he was a rock buster before he started killin' folk?" he said skeptically. He didn't like to think he was the type to believe in ghost stories and mummery, but, this man didn't seem like he was spinning a yarn. 

	"Aye, true," his generous companion said, "A'fore that Two Cloaks was the son of a whore who grew up in a gang. Not an important one, mind, some small Grey Rats that ended up as dead as you or I will be one day." That was queer comparison. Hector had never heard that expression before, but, he did his best to stay out of Grey and maybe it was something they said down here. There was a sort of morbid fascination down where the only lights came from weak spark lamps and glints of steel in the dark. 

	Hector took another drink. The stuff was potent. He could already feel the tingle all over his body, warm and soothing. The stranger leaned a bit closer, reaching across the table and grasping his wine bottle. "Need a refresh y'self?" Hector asked, his words slurring far more than he figured they should. The half elf pulled out the cork and poured his still full cup back into the bottle deftly, not spilling a drop. Hector's eyes widened, "What? Y'didn't 'ave a sip?" he didn't understand. His mind was so foggy. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the little drum in his chest seeming to pump fuzzy thick blood through his veins. 

	The half breed grinned that devil fanged smile of his and shook his head, "Not a drop. One cup is enough to drop someone your size in about an hour. With how much you drank I'm surprised you are still conscious," he snickered, "I'll be honest with you, I wasn't chained with Two Cloaks. I don't even know who the man chained behind me was. They came and went year after year. The rest is true though." he corked the bottle and rested his thin hand on top, "twenty long years breaking rocks and when they tossed me out I had a head full of herbalism and a good memory for all those stout lil' whip jocks who thought they were som'thin' special," he laughed, the sound hit Hector like a blackjack. There was no way it was as loud as he thought it was. It sounded like standing on the inside of damned tower bell. 

	Hector tried to speak but his words were nothing but unintelligible slurps and gurgles. His whole face seemed to tingle and he couldn't even list his arms. The man before him split into three, fading in and out of focus. 

	"Oh, I see we are about done here," the army of murderers before him whispered from every direction, "You were worth far more than the effort and I thank you for that. Don't worry, Hector, I'll take care of that fat piss guzzler who hired me. I didn't like the way he looked and talked. I'll do him for free, just for the practice and laughs," 

	There was a sudden snap as a stone was placed heavily down on the table. For a second, Hector was alert. He saw Two Cloaks standing with the bottle of poisoned wine in his right hand. His left was holding down a stone as if it were about to jump away. He'd slapped it down on the table to get his attention. Hector's rolling eyes caught sight of the inside of his killer's cloak, a patchy mottled grey and black checker that seemed to hold every hue of shadow ever cast on the darkest nights in the Gray District.

	"I took care of your tab," Two Cloaks said calmly as he started to fade into innumerable shades, "You won't die a debter. Tell whoever comes to collect you that I'll be expecting you when my time finally comes." with that, the many figures turned to leave, taking the bottle and Hector's life with them. 

	His eyes closed, head spinning, heart pounding ever so slowly in his thrumming chest. He was vaguely aware of his head hitting the table as he fell from the seat. He thought the table might have tipped over as well. He hoped Two Cloaks had left enough to pay for any damage that might have caused. He didn't want to inconvenience anyone. Hector tried to think back on his life. His mind was so misty and ethereal. He grasped at memories but they slid through the gaps in his fingers like the air of a smokey parlor. Weren't you supposed to see all your life before you died? Wasn't there supposed to-

	Hector didn't see or hear the people who came to laugh and prod at him. They thought him another drunkard, passed out from too much drink. After he had been jeered at in his last moments of life he was carried to his room by the flop house guard and laid on his bed of straw. By then he was dead but would not be discovered for two more days. He had overstayed his welcome and was stinking up the place when he was dragged out into the gutter. Riker had only paid for the one night. Hector died a debter after all. 

[/hider]


Prime Motive: Become a ghost story and legend.
Accessory Motive(s): 
[list][*]Kill some of the Paragons.
[*]Get mass recognition and sway, especially in the Gray District.
[*]Make an absurd amount of money. [/list]
Internal Conflict: 
Practicality vs. Prejudice: It is hard to make a living and become a legend when you are killing gang leaders and nobodies. The people with the real money are the same people who Riker would rather see dead than as his employer. Dwarves have the most money but they are the ones who need a good stabbing, what is an enterprising hitter to do? 

Vocational:
Occupation: Mercenary/Hitter
Talents: 
[list][*]Larceny: Lock picking, tampering with machines, a bit of everything to get you into where you aren't meant to be.
[*]Herbalism: The fine art of taking plants that might to something potent, or nothing, and combining them into something special.
[*]Murder: Killing people, it can be an art.
[*]Stealthy: Soft of foot and careful. Moving undetected through a quiet compound or in the busy alleys of the Gray Districts, Riker, has much practice and great talent. [/list]
Flaws: 
[list][*]Is not a skilled fighter: Perhaps on par with what you might expect from a gang thug.
[*]Untrustworthy: Money and advantages speak so much louder than ideas.
[*]Disquieting: Not that Riker doesn't like talking to people, but, he is notably terrible at it. Often frightening people, putting them on edge, or, angering them due to his lack of all ability to understand people or see them as more than tools. 
[*]Immoral: You don't get to be the best hitter in Glim' by pearl clutching and thinking of the children. [/list]
Equipment:
[list][*]Poison Satchel 
[*]Thieves Tools(Lock picks, crowbar, wrenches, probes, rope, grapple, other small tools)
[*]Stiletto 
[*]Dagger
[*]Spark Pistols X2 (Not always carried)
[*]Reversible Cloak (One side is a simple dark brown and the other is a mottled shades of gray and black)
[*]Herbalist's Tools (Not carried, includes what would be needed to turn various chemical ingredients into solutions, powders, grains,etc)[/list]

Supplemental: 
Secrets: A great many.
Quirks: 
[list][*]Fixation with teeth
[*]Tends to revert to his Gray District slum accent from his more polished clear speech when emotional or under great stress.
[*]Sadist
[*]Hates Dwarves, offers discounts on contracts on Dwarves
[*]Loves his reputation and takes effort to expand it [/list]
Other: 
[list][*]Current Bounty: 1,000 Tarns
[*]Nearly 300 murders attributed to "The Half Bred Devil"
[*]Has actually eliminated 33 targets, collateral deaths unknown, but, less than 300 [/list]
[/hider]