Limitless Lives Lived

Artist: Merwild

Appearance -

Gender: Male

Race: Sin’dorei

Height: 6′4″

Eye Color: Seafoam Green

Hair Color: Black with salt & pepper around the temples                            

The Facts -

Birthday:  October 3rd

Age:  He’d say middle-aged, but much older than most would guess. 

Nicknames:  Stellan

Occupation:  Currently a bouncer for The Red Moon, Mercenary

Sexual identification:  Heterosexual

Romantic identification: Heteromantic

Alignment:  Neutral Evil

Criminal History:  Extensive, but relatively unknown

Documented:  Public Intoxication, Assault/Battery

Undocumented:  Bribery, Extortion, Fraud, Homicide, Money Laundering, Arson

Relationship Status:  Widowed

Faceclaim:  Mix of Clive Owen & Jon Hamm

Favorites –

Favorite food:  Oranges, breakfast foods, steak

Favorite drink:  Brandy, whiskey, orange juice

Favorite artist:  Real world inspiration, he’d adore artists like H.R. Giger

Favorite scents:  The wilderness, citrus, leather, peppermint, vanilla

Favorite person:  Currently no one

Randoms –

Ten facts about your muse:

⚫  Inistellan Volanthus is not his birth name.  He’s gone through four names in his life, but feels as if Stellan is going to be his final name.

⚫  Expert alchemist, especially when it comes to crafting poisons.

⚫  In one of his ‘previous lives’ he worked on a pirate ship as a Boatswain, because of this he’s quite knowledgeable on boats/ships/sailing in general and a very skilled carpenter.

⚫  Married twice, widowed twice.

⚫  His latest wife died in the Broken Shore campaign.

⚫  Retired from the Farstriders after her death before he had the chance to go to Argus. Had risen to the rank of Ranger Captain and was up for a promotion, but he felt it to be his time to go.

⚫  In his ‘first life’ he was the piano/pipe organ/carillon player for the Silvermoon Orchestra. He owns a piano and regularly practices at home as a personal hobby now.

⚫  Has a deep, baritone singing voice that rarely sees the light of day anymore. Most would consider him a ‘crooner’.

⚫  Despite his recent retirement, he still works out and spars every single day.

⚫  Has picked up painting as a hobby recently and mostly prefers a more abstract style.

Five Things -

Things they like: -Smoking pipes -Camping in the mountains -Younger (but legal) women -Suits, been awhile since he’s been able to wear these on a regular basis. -Being underestimated

Things they dislike: -Drugs -Those without proper manners -Abusers of any variety -Lazy people -Cheap booze & tobacco

Good traits/habits: -Disciplined -Intelligent -Confident -Hard working -Courageous

Bad traits/habits: -Deceitful -Stubborn -Cynical -Abrasive -Selfish

Personalities they gravitate toward: -Intelligent -Warmhearted -Hard working -Flirtatious -Confident

Personality types they avoid: -Dim-witted -Nosy -Narrow-minded -Childish -Dependent

Fears: -Being found out -Losing more loved ones -Dying alone

I don't think he would, it's a pretty strict rule in his line of succession that once you're out, you're out. He would hate to step on the new Chameleon's toes anyways. There are a lot of parts of it that he truly misses, there's a thrill in it you can't quite find anywhere else. But there were plenty of other parts to it that he's happy to do without. The mercenary life suits him just fine now, as well as the various contracts he takes out between gigs that are, sometimes, a little less deadly.

The tavern was crowded enough that it was easy enough to disappear into it. That was one of the reasons Stellan liked places like this. The noise, the laughter, the arguments partially hidden beneath music and clinking glasses created a sort of camouflage. People assumed they were anonymous in a crowd. They relaxed, became careless, and then revealed themselves without ever realizing it.

He sat near the wall with a glass of whiskey resting comfortably in one hand, pipe in the other, glowing eyes wandering lazily across the room. To anyone paying attention, he looked exactly like what he claimed to be: a retired Farstrider enjoying a quiet evening. Well-dressed and composed as always, he allowed his posture to comfortably relax. The truth was that he hadn't spent centuries teaching himself to observe only to suddenly stop because he no longer had a use for the skill.

The young mercenary near the fireplace was nervous despite his confident grin, Stellan could tell from the way his fingers tapped against his mug whenever conversation drifted toward upcoming contracts. Across the room, a pair of merchants were discussing business, but only one of them was negotiating. The other had already made up his mind before sitting down and wanted the illusion of control. Nearby, a server carried drinks through the crowd while avoiding a particular table, a subtle indication that someone seated there had crossed a line with her before. Little things. The sort of details most people never noticed because they were too busy talking, drinking, or thinking about themselves. 

Stellan noticed all of it.

His father had made certain of that long ago. Information had always been the foundation upon which everything else was built. The habit had survived every name he was ever known by. Long after passing along the title of The Chameleon, he still found himself studying rooms the moment he entered them. Faces, exits, body language, relationships, and tensions, all of it was easily clocked before he realized he was doing it. Some skills became second nature, others became a part of the bones. 

The strange thing was that he no really longer needed any of it. There was no target waiting for a report, no contract requiring preparation, no identity to assume, and no hidden enemy to eliminate. The observations accumulated with nowhere to go. He knew who in the room would likely start a fight before the evening ended. He knew who was trying to impress a potential lover. He knew which patrons carried weapons and which merely wished people believed they did. Once upon a time, all of that knowledge would have served a purpose. Now, it simply existed.

Stellan took a sip of whiskey and found himself smiling faintly into the glass. Perhaps that was the part he missed most. Not the killing or the danger, not even the deception. What he missed was having a reason for the hunt. Every room had once been a puzzle to solve, every conversation was a thread worth pulling. 

A burst of laughter rose from a nearby table, drawing his attention. One of the gamblers had just realized he had been cheated. The culprit wasn't particularly skilled, Stellan had spotted the trick twenty minutes earlier. Yet rather than become angry, the victim started laughing harder than anyone else, impressed by the audacity. The table erupted into cheers, drinks were raised, and the game continued.

The outcome surprised him. It reminded him how often people refused to behave the way logic suggested they should. For all his experience, people remained delightfully inconsistent. It was one of the few reasons they never became boring.

His gaze drifted toward the tavern windows where darkness had settled long ago. There had been a time when he viewed everyone through the lens of predator and prey. Potential threats, assets, and targets. Years of retirement had softened that perspective, though it had never erased it completely, nor would it ever. Now he saw flawed and predictable people trying to navigate lives far messier than they cared to admit. The realization settled comfortably somewhere in his chest.

The instincts would always remain. He would always notice the hidden weapon, the nervous glance, and the lie concealed behind a smile. He would always dissect a room within moments of entering it. That had been ingrained in him much too thoroughly. What had changed was his willingness to act upon it. For perhaps the first time in his life, Stellan could sit in a room full of secrets and feel no need to pursue them. He could recognize them, even admire some of the better lies, and then simply let them be. There was a freedom in that. 

He raised his glass toward the crowd before taking another drink, a smirk lingering on his lips. The room remained full of stories he would never know and mysteries he would never solve. That thought would have bothered him once upon a time. Tonight, he found that he didn't mind at all.