Archon's Way of the Wicked.

[Farmerbink]

The first man in the room, if indeed he can be called that, slumps to the ground in a lurching clank of metal and stone. A strangled sound escapes his throat, a few seconds later identifiable as laughter. His bald pate glistens dimly with a few scattered droplets of sweat, skin too dark to be fully human reflecting the flickering torchlight. A pair of short tusks or fangs stick up from his lower jaw, clearly betraying his Orcish heritage.

The rags which hide his torso and upper legs couldn't possibly disguise the bulging muscles of his shoulders and arms. With each ragged chortle, his chest rises and falls, revealing a wide-framed chest beneath the tatters. His fingers contract and release almost spasmodically, occasionally closing into a fist before flying open once more- grasping at some unknown and invisible thread.

Spoiler: OOC

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Perhaps it's more a matter of rumors, but the sorcerer was captured for arson. The leader of a smallish band of brigands, he pressed an attack on a small frontier town- not small enough, however, to lack an official station of Talingarde soldiers. He torched the barracks, some say without any torches, and four of the guardsmen perished in the blaze.

All in all, however, his paltry band was in over their heads. His men were hanged the next day, but he was sent to Branderscar to be made an example of.

When he speaks, the unnamed sorcerer will use purple, and most of his discussions will be curt and impolite. You worthless, forsaken bast***s deserve no better!

The man's gaze remains somewhere amidst the middle of the stones that make the floor, his eerie chuckling raising plentiful questions about his mental state. For the moment, he takes no notice of his companions, and makes no effort to introduce himself.