I look forwards to horrifying my RP partners with my descriptions of what tiny, chubby, middle-age, mom!friend Moreen’s gonna do to the asshole who threw her in jail and torched fifty years worth of research~!

...I worry she might make people uncomfortable.

He knew he shouldn't, but he did anyway.

SeveranceHe whines. He has a low pain tolerance and a habit of picking up odd flus and broken bones during his travels, and when it comes to having them healed, he whines the whole way through. He has an excellent voice for whining: high-pitched and ringing, with an accent that sharpened every consonant and drew out every vowel, and dropped the soft sounds all together. And when he spoke, he dropped his jaw, stretching out the light-brown skin more than most people, voice cutting through, demanding to be heard. His clothes are sturdy leather, brown and road-worn. His features are thin and long and sharp, in contrast with the softness of his jawline and the fact that he is actually under average height. His eyes are dark, and they flicker around the room, seeming to pull his gaze and body along with them as he wanders and fidgets, never still, always moving. He smells like dust and horses, and he wears his straight black hair down only when he reaches his destinations. He's lean, but he eats well, and there will always be some padding around his form. That voice goes on, always something to chatter about, mouth curling up at one corner. He moves his hands as he speaks, not so much in correlation with his words as it is something to do. Silver flashes at the root of his chipped, dull black nails, and after a minute, he idly brings one up to his lips, biting the edge of his finger like he doesn't even notice. With the other hand, he scratches an itch forming on his breasts, too large, in his opinion, to comfortably bind, and not for the first time, he narrows his eyes at the first person he catches staring. They cough, after a minute, and turn away. His eyes remain narrowed as he memorized their features, shoulders stiff, back straight, and slowly removes the finger from his mouth. There is pride in his stance as well as rage. He is the best scout they have, the fastest messenger, the most accurate cartographer, and nobody could argue with it.When he left, he purposefully did not limp, walking stiffly and straight despite the bindings still wrapped around his ankle he'd been whining about earlier.

Gerald (jere-auld)He is broad and solid as a brick wall, and just tall enough to stand out in a crowd. Short, rust-red hair sticks up every which way when he removes his helmet, which itself has seen better days. Everything he owns has seen better days. His armor is dented and scratched, lacking rust seemingly through force of will alone. His uniform sports several sloppily-repaired tears, each with its own colorfully out of place thread, and his clothing is worn threadbare in places. His eyes are warm, hazel, and there's a light dusting of freckles across his crooked nose that it takes a third glance to see. His skin is tanned from hours out in the sun, leaving sharp tan lines around his collar and where the short sleeves he wears in summer cut off. His voice is soft but not terribly low, and he pauses suddenly in the middle of his sentence, expression distant as he recalibrates his words before starting again. Someone makes a comment, and the others laugh, all but him; his slender brows snap down above his eyes, his nose wrinkles, his shoulder straighten, and now his voice is low, gravelly with anger as he scolds the group. The cloud seems to clear as quickly as it had come once they apologize, although his lips still remain thinner than they were before, even when he smiles. He often smiles; smiling seems to be his default reaction, something he turns to instead of words. His mouth twists up at the corner in a nervous smile when out on the spot, he flashes off a full grin when agreeing with somebody, or shakes his head with a wry smirk and a chuckle when entertained. He smiles apologetically at them when he's called away, sparing a moment to give the jokester a flash of wide, strong, stained teeth that is definitely not a smile. The smiles all melt when he turns away for them to march off, bowed legs putting an unusual roll in his step, picking up his long, heavy spear on his way out without breaking stride. He smells like rust and mud and smoke, and when he's on duty the only smiles he gives are the small hidden ones that come involuntarily when he knows no one is watching.

Naniana (nah-nee-ah-nah)She is tall, slender, her whole body formed of lean, wiry muscle. Charms glitter around her neck, silver circles and knots hanging heavy against her red tunic. Her unruly brown hair is pulled back with a red ribbon, though a few curls have broken loose to hang around her face. Her skin is dark, as is her right eye; her left socket is lined with silver which cups forward to hold back the lid, holding back her lashes from the miniature sun spinning where once there was an eyeball. Deep scared gouges crisscross her face, converging around that hole. She fills her plate from dishes before they're set down on the table, her movements quick and fluid. She twists like it's just as comfortable for her to sit with her legs pointing forward and her shoulders pointing back, and perhaps that has something to do with her charms. Her voice is low and carries easily across the room as she idly chats with those around her. She has an accent which catches on her Ts, hard Gs, and THs, rumbles her Rs, and merges her Ms and Ns, fairly thick but not beyond understanding. Her smile is bright, though she's missing two teeth on the upper right side of her jaw. Long lashes flutter against her cheek as she leans forward, one elbow propped on the table, long fingers gesturing, all her focus and attention apparently on the conversation before her, while the other hand steals potatoes from her neighbor's plate. If any of the others notice the sharp pang of sulphur clinging to her clothes and skin, nobody has bothered to comment.

THANK YOU ANON,YOU'RE LOVELY~!Kanon (kay-non)He's small, standing next to the others, his forehead somewhere around their collarbones, but he doesn't seem to ever be aware of it; everything about him seems designed for a larger man. He is broad, square, strong, hefting a mace half the size of his skull like it is nothing more than a paperweight, and his movements take up more space than they should. He stands like someone stuck a pole down his shirt so long ago that he's forgotten it's even there. He throws his arms out dramatically, only to whip them back in to clutch his chest in mock horror a split second later, telling some story that it's impossible not to be riveted by. His armor is scratched but well-cared for, with not a spot of rust on it, and somehow the plates seem made for him, despite their obvious age difference. His face is fresh and always flushed, and he pants a little when he gets excited. The high-necked leather tunic beneath it is not regulation, and suggests he might be a bit more foreign than his freckles and corkscrewing orange curls would have you believe. He smells like sugar and alcohol, like the sweet drinks he indulges in after hours; his teeth have suffered for it. Without knowing him for more than a minute you'd know he's not the type of man you'd want to see angry, if only because he doesn't lose his temper often at all. In a sea of confusion, he's an anchor, a point of calm and smiles, ready to hand out opinions you could break your teeth on and the choosiest bits of gossip in equal measure.All that said, it's probably a good thing his helmet hides his face during battle; there's no need for others to see the way his smiles twist when he brings that mace into action.