Aanash
Tiefling Barbarian/Wizard/Warlock
AC: 19 HP: 57/57
PP: 12 PIv: 11 PIs: 12
Conditions: Arcane Ward (5/5), Temp HP (7)

The way the gnome with the stick up her rear talks doesn't instill Aan with great confidence that he will enjoy this meeting. Growing up on the streets among revolutionaries in a police state did little to instill one with a great love of authority figures. But the man himself wears no crown, and does not seem to have taken any extensive means to raise himself above the others in the room.

Splitting into a grin as the man's casual demeanor further endears him, Aanash decides he likes this guy. Maybe all royals could do with living a few years mayoring a little town. When the Prince offers him a hand, he shakes it gladly in local custom, then folds his hands together in front of him and bows. "I offer you peace, Good Prince. A gift I rarely offer, so I hope you cherish it," he adds playfully to the end of the near-successful attempt at a formal greeting. It is more courtesy than Aanash has been seen to show just about anyone else. But once Oargev passes, he returns to his sardonic, casual posture.

Face splitting to truly rival a bear trap, he comments gleefully, "Ragtag salvager sounds about right. I challenge you to find a neatly trimmed salvager, Kellar sir, for I guarantee you if their clothes are not torn and their bodies have no scars they have not set foot in the brutal majesty of the Mournlands. Myself, once I was struck with a bolt of warped lightning," he holds his hands up to the sky and then lowers them down to tap the tips of his hair, a few arcs of red electricity crackling between the metal bristles and arcing to the metal in his fingernails. "Legends say the lightning never came back out."