Difference between revisions of "Constantius"
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'''Appearance:''' Constantius wasn't a young man at the time of his Embrace, for his long dark hair is shot through at regular intervals with hairs of both gray and white. His careworn, troubled mien bear the marks of a classical Roman heritage and his dark eyes hold both poignant pain and an unflinching pride that is the hallmark of those who refuse to submit to death. Constantius' skin, long untouched by the light of day, is as gray and pale as that of a slug, although the capillaries of his face hold the prominence found in those who once partook too deeply of wine or spirits. | '''Appearance:''' Constantius wasn't a young man at the time of his Embrace, for his long dark hair is shot through at regular intervals with hairs of both gray and white. His careworn, troubled mien bear the marks of a classical Roman heritage and his dark eyes hold both poignant pain and an unflinching pride that is the hallmark of those who refuse to submit to death. Constantius' skin, long untouched by the light of day, is as gray and pale as that of a slug, although the capillaries of his face hold the prominence found in those who once partook too deeply of wine or spirits. | ||
| − | In public or in private, he dresses only in the finest silk robes overlaid by an equally fine brocade surcoat. The only jewelry that he wears is a iron ring of simple if masculine design on his left ring finger, a memento of his long-lost mortal love. But it isn't Constantius' physical form that grips those who encounter him, it is the air of age and shabbiness that cling to him like the shroud of the newly dead. For while his is unaging, he holds himself like a man in his mortal seventies or eighties, stooped and always leaning on an ebony stick to rise from his cold throne. That is, until he is roused to fury, then the seeming gray cobwebs of time shatter as his shadow explodes into action, which is usually the last thing that someone so stupid ever sees. | + | In public or in private, he dresses only in the finest silk robes overlaid by an equally fine brocade surcoat. The only jewelry that he wears is a iron ring of simple if masculine design on his left ring finger, a memento of his long-lost mortal love. But it isn't Constantius' physical form that grips those who encounter him, it is the air of age and shabbiness that cling to him like the shroud of the newly dead. For while his is unaging, he holds himself like a man in his mortal seventies or eighties, stooped and always leaning on an ebony stick, use as often as not to rise from his cold throne. That is, until he is roused to fury, then the seeming gray cobwebs of time shatter as his shadow explodes into action, which is usually the last thing that someone so stupid ever sees. |
'''Behavior:''' | '''Behavior:''' | ||
Revision as of 21:12, 28 December 2017
- Lasombra -SPQR- Rome -- medieval
Sobriquet: To those who wish his good will, he may be addressed as Augustus or Caesar. For the very few who have a close relationship with him, Flavius.
Appearance: Constantius wasn't a young man at the time of his Embrace, for his long dark hair is shot through at regular intervals with hairs of both gray and white. His careworn, troubled mien bear the marks of a classical Roman heritage and his dark eyes hold both poignant pain and an unflinching pride that is the hallmark of those who refuse to submit to death. Constantius' skin, long untouched by the light of day, is as gray and pale as that of a slug, although the capillaries of his face hold the prominence found in those who once partook too deeply of wine or spirits.
In public or in private, he dresses only in the finest silk robes overlaid by an equally fine brocade surcoat. The only jewelry that he wears is a iron ring of simple if masculine design on his left ring finger, a memento of his long-lost mortal love. But it isn't Constantius' physical form that grips those who encounter him, it is the air of age and shabbiness that cling to him like the shroud of the newly dead. For while his is unaging, he holds himself like a man in his mortal seventies or eighties, stooped and always leaning on an ebony stick, use as often as not to rise from his cold throne. That is, until he is roused to fury, then the seeming gray cobwebs of time shatter as his shadow explodes into action, which is usually the last thing that someone so stupid ever sees.
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