This man has a very messy look about him. Sometimes to the point of being unclean, though he makes a habit of at least washing, it seems. Personal grooming, however, he cares little for. His stark black hair is never combed, and is always sticking out at odd angles, though the angles and parts of hair that stick out can vary day to day, it’s usually best characterized as “messy”, and perhaps further more as “eccentric looking”, to be polite. He stands at five feet eleven inches tall with a strong build, though his lifestyle causes him to be rather lean. He ends up being on the skinny and gangly side, which many could say is a waste considering his bone structure would be very fitting for a warrior. His eyes are usually squinted so it almost appears that his eyes are outright closed, or pretty much, though it seems he can see just fine. His skin is pale and pocked all over with freckles, including his face. It gives him a blotched look in some area’s. If he could just get a good more amount of freckles, he’d almost be kind of tanned. He wears rectangular spectacles over his eyes, the size and shape seeming to be made for his eyes alone, being short height wise as if they too are squinting. A scholar’s glasses it would seem.

His clothing involves ugly brown trousers, an ugly grey undershirt, and a surprisingly okay looking trench coat, or perhaps it’s a darkly coloured lab coat. The coat has many pockets, and in case that wasn't enough, he wears a belt with many pouches on them. He rarely washes his clothing unless it starts to grow fetid in smell. It usually doesn't, as he himself is not particularly stinky nor does he usually go out of his way to do particularly stink inducing activities. He does get dirty, but not stinky or otherwise disgusting.

His general demeanor seems to be somewhat timid at times, but otherwise eccentric as his hair can be, particularly when he gets excited. His eyes will open wide and seem to almost ignite with an inner fire when something fascinates him or he feels he’s discovered something important, or if he’s just bedded a woman since this is a very rare thing for him and is no doubt more exciting for him that many more “lucky” and comely men his age.

The only other notable detail is a ring with a dragon sigil on it, made of iron and adorned on his left hand’s index finger.

The man is quiet. He’s not very prone to talking to people unless he has a reason to. He’s not one for small talk, not because he hates small talk or socializing, but because he doesn't know what to say to people. However, if he does get talking - especially about something he knows a lot about or is passionate about - he becomes excited, very excited. Not to mention at least a little obnoxious and loud. He’s particularly timid around girls he fancies, opting most of the time to repeatedly stare at a girl in hopes she’ll be the one to make a move on him, crippled by a sort of anxiety that his parents had once said should have died with his becoming of a man.

He’s not particularly adventurous. He’s not one who would go out on an adventure or do something otherwise dangerous just for the sake of it. He’s not a typical thrill seeker. He gets his thrills from discovery and invention. He’s a tinkerer, and loves trying to make things - his own things. New things, dreamt by his own mind and crafted with his own hands. If he needs to go somewhere to get something he will do it in a heartbeat if there’s no other alternative.

Furthermore, he’s a bit of a coward. He’d rather not deal with physical conflict, but is no stranger to verbal debate - which sometimes gets him into situations of physical conflict which he would sooner flee than fight. Either that, or scream for help. His greatest combat prowess is his ability to rapidly slap at his opponent in hopes of catching them off guard with his incompetence long enough for him to run away or for help to arrive. Even if assaulted, he’s weary about punching someone, especially about their face. He doesn’t like how someone’s face feels as it impacts his fist, or at least he doesn’t like how he imagines it to be. As if he’s ever gotten the balls to do that.

There is only one thing that will put him in an absolute rage, and that is the desecration of his hoard. Anything he holds valuable, which for him is typically knowledge. Books, manuscripts, trinkets, projects, so on and so forth. If any of these things are harmed or stolen, he’ll do whatever necessary to get them back. Perhaps even murder, if it came to that. While he’s not very good at combat, he has a very good understanding of basic human anatomy. He knows that when pierced by a sharp object in a vital place it’s most likely that one will die.

Gwideon was born to a noble family in a kingdom near the portal to the Dusk Realm of the Xitians. He was immediately sent to school when he became of age. His mother had died giving birth to him leaving his father, Llauran, sour and bitter. Try as he might to not blame his son for his beloved’s death, he couldn’t stand to be near him. He couldn’t stand the sight of him! And so, he was sent to school where he would be grilled by mentors and professors on many subjects. Math, common, some history, science, so on and so forth.

As a result of this nigh constant study that was imposed upon him he seldom had time for a social life, let alone friends. What friends he did meet seemed to be driven off soon after getting to know him better. The more he seemed to open up to people, to talk to people, the more likely to him it seemed he would end up saying something stupid. He decided at the tender age of around 8 that he was better off not speaking if he didn’t have to. His attempts at finding friendship shriveled and burned away, replaced by a desire to make up for his lack of social skills with knowledge.

And then it happened. Civil war ripped through the lands of the mainland, causing death and grief in almost every corner of the continent. He was largely unaffected directly, along with the rest of the city’s inhabitants. However indirectly he was terrified. A boy of no more than 9 or 10 years of age who thought about things far more than he should at times would no doubt be gripped by fear, like a cold icy hand around his heart. This pushed him to further envelop himself in his studies in an attempt to distract himself from the news that men were being slain, women were being raped, and children were being stripped from their families at any given moment.

The war’s didn’t affect the city very much due to the close proximity to the Lucin forces that which guarded the Xitian portal, but no matter it affected them anyway in some way’s. The production of armor, weaponry, ammunition, and fortification of defenses skyrocketed in the coming years during the civil war. The city and her inhabitants might have been safe, but the outskirting farm villages were not. They needed protection.

Gwideon had lived for his thirteenth summer when things started to change for him. His father finally let go of his grief. It was a strange event for Gwideon, as he knew his father as a cold, bitter man. Imagine his surprise when his father wept and begged for his forgiveness, begged him to forgive him for not being the father he should have been. Gwideon considered his options. He could spite his father for everything he had done. He had the upper hand! But, his father had done nothing bad other than not be his father. His father was not outwardly hateful towards Gwideon, in fact his father still obviously cared for him. He had never given it much thought, but he was only as smart as he was because of his father putting him through the best schooling the city had to offer. Gwideon sighed, letting go of a grudge he hadn’t really thought he had until that moment, and forgave his father.

The second change in his life was that he had become an apprentice. An apprentice to a renowned, at least in that city, engineer. The engineer was a professor at the school Gwideon attended, and had watched Gwideon grow over the years. His name was Manosse. He was kind to Gwideon, relatively. He was firm but fair, and he was okay with that. He had little time to bond with his father, but he knew there was no need. There was no animosity between father and son, but a mutual understanding. Gwideon wanted to do this, he craved knowledge like a businessman craved money.

Manosse specialized in weaponry, but could invent a mirad of assorted thingamabobs and gadgets all the same. The old man was skilled in his art. Over the next ten years as the civil war raged around them, he imparted his knowledge of blacksmithing, woodworking, and essentially every skill Gwideon would know in the foreseeable future onto him. His social life consisted of mealtimes with his father and being taught by his mentor, and for the most part he was okay with that.

During those ten years sieges had been attempted on the city, for gods know what reason. The walls had held strong, protecting the city and her children. However, overtime wear and tear will grind away at all things, strong or weak. All things, from the lowest of creatures to the tallest and thickest of walls come to an end, one way or another. A small, if deadly, army came knocking on the walls. First their catapults doused the walls and the men and women who defended it in burning pitch, laying waste to anything flammable - including flesh. Their own counter siege equipment was burned to ashes, leaving nothing but ashen rubble of what were once powerful catapults that had ney failed to defend the city time and time again from such attacks.

The black, flaming tar that doused the walls, men and defenses of the city could not have been flung as far as it was without one of two things. Either the enemy had made an advance in technology rapidly, or more likely, Xitians had aided the projectiles of flames and sludge from the earth, adding their power over earth and fire to the power of the catapult’s releases.

Gwideon was deep within the city. He didn’t hear the screams of men and women, nor the raging fires that crippled the wall’s defenses and made a defensive assault impossible. He could only see, as he turned to look out the window as billowing walls of smoke from the walls leagues away caught his eye from the common room tower of the school as the pitch ceased to be thrown in favour of boulders that crumbled the strong walls, piece by piece, brick by brick.

Horror gripped him. He called for Manosse, but could not find him. Nor could he find his father. The fight wouldn’t be near the school for some time now, but all he had was some time. He ran frantically about, pulling together all he could. A large bag which he filled with whatever supplies he thought he would need. Empty books, quills, ink pots, food, clothing, spare glasses, several changes of underwear which he was sure he would need just for the task of escaping the city, so on and so forth. What he couldn’t fit in the bag, he stuffed in the belt that held many tools and pouches, and steeled himself. He looked out the window, and could now distantly hear the agonizing shrieks of men, women, and children being burned alive in pitch, the sound of buildings being destroyed by hulking boulders, and of his city falling further into the depths of the Nether’s clutches with every passing minute.

He bit back tears of rage, sadness, and fear. He tried to find his father and Manosse once again, but resigned himself to a memory, and looked sadly in the direction of the raging battle. They both had errands to run this day in the market, which was now bathed in flames. His logical mind told him to hold back the tears and feelings of hopelessness as well as he could, for dying here with them was not a very wise option. And with that, he ran for the western gates of the city, opposite the carnage, and joined the throng of soon-to-be refugees.

A few years of pilgrimage had opened Gwideon’s eyes to some things, chiefly among them was the fact that he hated pilgraming. It, quite frankly, sucked. He didn’t enjoy moving from city to city, town to town, to try to continue his studies on his own, to gather knowledge of many subjects. He prefered being stationary, anchored down. On top of this, he had never felt so lonely in his life. The mainland was not for him. As he traveled the lands over the years that followed in his pursuit of ending the misery in his heart he saw nothing but blood stained earth.

He had no doubts in his mind that many of the beaming and giggling children he saw would either be smashed to pieces by a civil war brought about by greed, manipulation, and power hungry war mongers or conscripted into war some day to be sent to the butcher for execution, which was as apt a metaphor for those who partook in the war as he could come up with. In many places the feeling of dread, despair, and hopelessness was palpable on the mainland. He had not realized how widespread the war truly was. He heard stories of horrid acts of violence erupting all over the continent, but thought them largely exagerated back in his home. How wrong he was…

He could smell blood in the air in many places, and feel the static charge of paranoia and the expectation that any moment they could all be torn asunder. A truly terrifying environment to have to wander alone, Gwideon thought. He needed a way out, and he knew of only one.

The forbidden lands.

He had been warned during his childhood by rumours and such before the civil war, and even during the beginning when it was simply a spark on kindling, a small flame rather than a raging inferno. As time went on, he heard of many people deciding to take the ships to the islands to escape this bloody land, and heard rumours of the potential of prosperity and paradise in those once feared lands, at least relative to the mainland in these times. He thought for a long time on the prospect, and decided this was an adventure of necessity. He made for the docks that would bear ships headed for those fabled lands of which he grew up hearing nightmarish tales about. The thought made a shiver run up his spine, and hoped desperately that the new rumours were the correct ones - at least now, anyway.

Gwideon had never sailed before. He decided after stepping on the boat which rocked slightly from the movement of passengers that he hated it already. During the journey he didn't once become sick from the sea rocking the ship. In fact, he enjoyed the sensation. He was more or less not a fan of the atmosphere on the boat. He knew he had to suck it up, but it was quite difficult not to whine and complain. He was, after all, once nobility. Though being nobility in a city nearly ten years razed means next to nothing now, especially where he’ll be going, and he knew this. So he resigned himself to putting up with the rather brash, crude, and rude mannerisms of sailor-folk and otherwise non nobility.

He heard talk of one of the places they would be docking, if for but a short time. “Nightveil” they had called it. He heard rumours of the place being cursed, but also that people had recently occupied the otherwise abandoned town situated on a lake. The ship wound through the river towards the village, and docked. He thought long and hard on that last stretch of the journey, and decided upon looking out at the city from the deck of the ship that this was as good a place as any. It was modest looking in his eyes, which suited his needs well enough.

He noted the place was rather foggy and misty, and smiled. The accursed dark walkers wouldn’t be a problem here as they were in his relatively dry city. Cursed? That alone seemed to be a blessing, not to mention what seemed to be the signs of bountiful forests, wildlife, and rich fertile soil. This didn’t concern him directly, as he was not a farmer or hunter of any sort, but it told him that he would not likely starve in this town - which was a very important quality in a home in his humble opinion. With a great intake of breath, and a nervous, shuddering sigh, he pushed his glasses further up his nose, and turned, going to prepare his belongings, hoping that if anything else, he would not encounter hostility here.