Thomlin Drakeford

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TD
1
LVL

Commoner

Thomlin Drakeford

Level 1·Male·Medium
Neutral Good

Species

Human

Appearance

Thomlin Drakeford is a broad, weathered man with the compact strength of someone who has hauled barrels for decades. His hands are scarred, flour-dusted, and permanently reddened around the knuckles, while his face carries a fine web of laugh lines that contrast with the watchful stillness of his gray eyes. He moves with a surprising softness for a man his size, gliding between tables without disturbing a cup. His beard is clipped short except for one long braided strand tucked behind his left ear. He smells faintly of cedar smoke, rain, and bitter orange peel. The unexpected contradiction is his delicate, almost aristocratic habit of touching every doorframe as he passes through it, as if entering a palace rather than a crowded tavern.

Height5 feet 10 inches
BuildBroad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and sturdy, with the thick forearms of a lifelong laborer
EyesStorm gray with amber flecks near the pupils
HairIron gray with dark brown remaining at the temples
SkinWeathered copper-brown, with windburn across the cheeks and nose

Low, warm, and deliberate, with a river-country accent softened by years of travelers' dialects. He pauses before answering questions that matter and grows almost whisper-soft when speaking about the dead.”

Ability Scores

STR
13+1
DEX
10+0
CON
12+1
INT
10+0
WIS
12+1
CHA
13+1

Alignment

Good
Lawful
Chaotic
EvilNeutral Good

Distinguishing Features

A long braided beard strand tucked behind his left ear

A pale scar across his right palm from a broken ferry chain

A brass key worn on a cord around his neck

A habit of touching every doorframe before passing through it

A missing tip on his left little finger

Voice

A warm baritone with a rasp at the edges, like a hearth fire burning through damp wood. When angry, he becomes quieter rather than louder.

Clothing

A faded russet waistcoat over a cream linen shirt, dark wool trousers, a leather belt carrying keys and a small utility knife, and a heavy green apron marked with old burn scars. His boots are polished more carefully than the rest of his clothing.

Body Language

Thomlin keeps his shoulders relaxed and his hands visible, but his feet are always angled toward the nearest exit. When listening to a painful confession, he leans forward without blinking. When lying, he smiles warmly and begins polishing something.

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