[center][quote=Attor Snakeslayer, to his last apprentice][color=a36209]"The Watch is old. It's fadin', son, and maybe...maybe we should let it."[/color][/quote][/center]

[b][color=a36209]Name:[/color][/b] 
Attor Snakeslayer

[b][color=a36209]Rank:[/color][/b] 
Watcher

[b][color=a36209]Appearance:[/color][/b] 
Mice have many enemies. Their foes come in any number of shapes and sizes. Great and small, from the tiniest shrew upstart to the vicious serpent monsters that tower above them, Mice have many enemies indeed. The greatest of these, though, is one often forgotten. Young mice in particular worry more about rats, weasels and lizards; they don't remember that foe of foes until their whiskers are long and their paws are wrinkled. Only in the final whispers of their years do Mice tend to turn their eye on the enemy that takes more Mice than all the rest.

That enemy, of course, is time.

And Attor knows it well.

Time's claws have worn him down. They have scratched, cut and bitten until that once proud soul is little more than a shadow of his former self, though the mouse would never admit it. His ugly coat, once black as midnight, now lies across his back matted, discolored and dirty. Eyes of unbreakable steel that once stared death in the face with unblinking courage have dulled and quieted, like the edge of an overused blade. 

That was what Attor was, in truth: an old sword that'd seen one too many battles.

His right ear is torn; chipped like the brittle edge of a rusted dagger. His whiskers are long and droopy, nearly brushing against the ground when Attor goes to sit. 

The marks of war and violence are prevalent across him, to the point where one would be hard-pressed to mark Attor as anything but an old soldier. Scars adorn most of his coat and body, from cuts to poorly healed burns and everything in-between. The worst of these injuries is a long, gnarly tear across his right forearm. A rat's blade tasted deep in his flesh many a moon ago, and Attor has had trouble opening that paw ever since. He was forced to relearn how to use both quill and sword with his left arm, though it's hard to tell he's not a natural lefty given how long ago that was.

Even the Snakeslayer's cloak has not aged well. Once bright like polished bronze, his mentor had remarked that Attor was more weasel than mouse, such was his slipperiness and savagery. Both of those traits have been worn down to the nub, much like the coloring of his cloak. Old bones don't dip and dive as they used to, and Attor finds little satisfaction in bloodshed anymore. His cloak is torn and discolored, covered in rough, self-made patches to keep it from falling apart. He's in dire need of a replacement, though the mouse would rather die than replace the last thing his master ever gave him.

[b][color=a36209]Personality:[/color][/b] 
Attor Snakeslayer is the best storyteller in all the Kingdoms of Gnaw. Or so he would have you believe. He's had a fondness for stories since he was but a mere boy, sparked first by the tales his father would read to him before bed. Even as he grew older, stronger and wiser, Attor never lost that love, though there were fewer and fewer stories that he hadn't heard before.

So he decided to make his own.

It was easiest to find stories among the Redwatch. They were something of a living legend to Attor. And in their midst he decided to craft his [i]own[/i] legend. He wasn't very good at it in the beginning, as all orators, writers and would-be tale-weavers can attest to. But he sharpened his verse and widened his expressions through the years, crafting newer and better tales as he went out and lived them for himself. That was how he came by his title: Snakeslayer. It was a story he'd gotten quite good at telling. Attor always attested to it's truth, though many called him a liar for it.

As time had helped him develop the art of speaking, so too it had worn down Attor's luster. For every tale he brought back of a vicious battle against the rats, or of a personal squabbled settled on the edge of a dagger, Attor's shoulders grew a little heavier. His smile a little slighter. The change was far from instant. Many hadn't noticed anything wrong with the mouse, even as his tales grew more grim, and his demeanor more somber. At some point, Attor forgot to keep telling of heroes, victory and bombastic adventure. He forgot the stories he'd fallen in love with as a youth.

He forgot himself.

At times, usually when Attor's quite drunk, he'll lament the passing of time. He'll lament the passing of the age of heroes, yearning for a return to a simpler era. An era where the Watch made sense- when the world made sense. A time when he would march into a village and be cheered for the band he wore upon his arm instead of shied away from, like he was a leper or a cutthroat. A time when Attor felt like a hero.

But he understands that the world doesn't work that way. He's resigned himself to the cold, unbending truth that the world no longer wants the Redwatch. Westercroft thinks itself above their help, and Glendale claims not to need it. The only place Attor feels at home is in Redfield- where he's more than content to make his final bed.