|Patron||Rhalgr, the Destroyer|
Neither especially tall nor especially short for an elezen, Dhatura falls comfortably in the middle. His silhouette is composed all of angles and keen edges, particularly about the shoulders and face. There is, in fact, very little about him that might give an impression of softness, either physically or emotionally. His uncomfortable thinness and the dour severity of his expression certainly lend an edge to his overall appearance. Severe though he is, he is well kept. His hair is rarely seen out of place. The strands rest slick against his skull, fixed in place with some manner of wax.
Limned in whorls of pale blue cosmetics, the man’s eyes are chill and watery, his irises the hue of a whisk of a wave. The careful eye may note that the skin beneath the paint is knotted and uneven, a spidery network of razor-thin scars rising from his eyelids like fading welts. There is a pattern there, an illegible pattern of twisted symbols marring the man’s flesh. His right eye is ever-so subtly lighter than the left, clouded by some old wound or another.
If one catches him without gloves, it is easy to read his nervous habits in his hands. His nails are jagged and bitten to the quick. The skin around his nails is no better off. Superficial scabs mark the places where he has torn away threads of skin, presumably with his teeth.
Compared to the rest of his gear, his garments seem too rich, too well kept and too well made for a man of his position. Despite that, they have clearly been tailored to his figure. Where he has obtained them is anyone’s guess. He is most often seen in a cloth and leather surcoat of vibrant reds, black, and white, a thin layer of chainmail worn beneath. He is rarely seen without a pair of simple brass spectacles. The frames are thin and a bit worse for wear, one of the arms bent enough that they sit unevenly on his face. The lenses have seen their share of wear and tear as well, a few scuffs and scratches visible when the glass catches the light.
He must apply some manner of perfume oil, for he smells of peppermint and cloves. Beneath that lies a scent somewhat less savory. Sometimes he reeks of ashes. Mostly, he smells like iron.
As a rule, Dhatura smiles seldomly, and the expression is rarely genuine. Carefully groomed, they are the sort of smiles that one practices in mirrors. His teeth are white, white, white, immaculately straight and brilliant in whatever light touches them. Tiny creases form at the corners of his mouth with each smile and purse of his lips.
More often than smiles, his expression is kept a blank slate. His eyes are glassy, empty like marbles. He watches with great care from behind brass spectacles. He watches, and he judges.
Dhatura's voice is a gentle sort of thing, a relaxed and airy tenor. His words are typically measured with care, though that quality quickly crumbles under stress. If honeyed words don't get him his way, he often falls back on bile, vitriol, and a sense of 'might makes right' that puts him at odds with many others.
Partner in crime turned comrade in arms turned inseparable equal, the pair has a history that runs awfully deep. They run through periods of hot, cold, and controlled disconnect. As often as Dhatura has her back, he’s at her throat. Motes is his most dependable – and most frustrating – ally. She is the first to unriddle him, the first to protect him whether or not he is in the right, and she is the last to give up on him. Despite all this, the implied value of his life to her unnerves him.
In a way, Motes is akin to Dhatura’s personal death. She is ever looming over his shoulder, keeping him from any other end that may find him. Whether she is the death that will take him remains to be seen.
Motes often says that her job has been teaching Dhatura manners.
Most people accept Dhatura’s mistruths, lies, and omissions of fact like hard candies – they hear exactly as much as they want to and avoid what must dwell between the lines. Rook is far more insistent, far more thorough, and has a habit of reading Dhatura like a shipping manifest. Rook has a certain propensity for bringing candor to light. In a way, Dhatura admires this. He finds it very unsettling, indeed, but not so unsettling as to burn this bridge. The prospect of a comfortable lifestyle is much too enticing to do anything so hasty.
So far, at least, Rook has done a far better job of teaching Dhatura to be patient than Motes ever did.
A highlander full of needling jabs and snarky pet names. ‘Spade,’ she calls him. For now, at least, he has embraced the nickname. He can’t tell if he likes it or not, though that could also be said for Sigyn. After his initial victory against her at the Grindstone, he seems to have won some modicum of respect. In this case, ‘respect’ is a rather nebulous term. Dhatura’s not actually sure if what he’s won has any worth at all.
Most troubling are Sigyn’s quips about how his genitals must be kept in a jar somewhere rather than on his person. They are still there. He has checked.
Almost definitely a flesh golem brought to life by necromantic magics, stitched together from the flesh and bone of the fallen. It's as good a theory as any, anyway.
- “I see him working for Rose now and again. Rose’s far too kind – beggars belief what sort he’ll allow to take commissions.”
- “Inoxia? Y’mean Spade? Yeah! I see him at the Grindstone now and again, seems to know his way around a lance pretty well. Puts on a decent enough show, I reckon.”
- “I used to see him with that big armored lady of his. Dunno if she’s his conscience or his girlfriend. Either way, can’t figure why a lady like her would put up with a man like that.”
- “Poor bastard’s got no luck when it comes to picking winning gladiators, but he keeps at it. Heard he’s got a tab damn near as long as he is. If he’s not careful, he might end up in the ring to pay ‘em off.”
- “See him sleeping on Pearl occasionally. Makes my guts churn to see folks like him lazing about. Word is he conned some poor kid into offering a free place to stay, smashed up the place and skipped town. Don’t care what colour his skin is, you mark my words: he’s duskwight through and through.”